


It's All In Your Mind

by Safiyabat



Series: Winchester and Sons - Teen Years Series [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Abuse, F/M, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester family business moves to Bardstown, Kentucky where they discover that will can be monstrous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second in the "Winchester and Sons - Teen Years" series and follows the events of "Trotter Head." It is not necessary to have read "Trotter Head first" although there are some passing references. Sam is 10, Dean is 14.
> 
> Supernatural and the characters from the show are not my property. I make no money from this or any other work of fan fiction.

Sam put his bag down on the windowsill next to the rollaway. “Well,” he said brightly, looking at his brother. “At least we’ve got our own beds this time.” The room was small, almost too small to accommodate a rollaway at all. There was a dresser but there was no way to open it with the rollaway there. It wasn’t like they needed it. Neither of them had more than a bag’s worth of clothes anyway, and unpacking meant taking more time to get out when the time came. 

Dean grunted. He’d left behind a girl in Knoxville. Well, he’d left behind a string of girls really but he’d actually been attached to one of them. He hadn’t said anything but in their three weeks or whatever of residence in scenic Knoxville he’d actually called her every single night. Sam thought her name began with an A. Annsley, maybe? He’d even taken her to the one school dance the middle school had even held, which had disappointed most of the string of other girls immensely. “This apartment sucks,” he said after a moment.

“It’s got three rooms, dude,” Sam pointed out. “With doors that all even close. That’s like a room per person.” He had not been terribly fond of Martinsburg, nor had he been terribly fond of Knoxville. A large part of his distaste had come from close quarters, bad food and restrictions from his injuries and illness at the hands of Trotter Head. He might not welcome physical training at all but he was still a nine-year-old boy, and no nine-year-old boy likes confinement or inactivity. “This is like the Taj Mahal.”

“The what now?” Dean chucked him a set of sheets that were frankly too large for the mattress. 

The younger boy began putting them on the bed. They were kind of scratchy and thin and they stank of the plastic in which they had been encased but that was okay. They stank of plastic because they were new, new and his alone. “Buckingham Palace?” he tried. “The White House? The Waldorf-Astoria?” He shook his head. “Whatever. Really awesome. Maybe the nicest place we’ve ever stayed besides Pastor Jim’s.”

“Dude, you are obsessed with Pastor Jim’s.” 

“It’s nice there. He’s got a huge library and he lets me read it.”

“You could be sleeping on a bed of nails and if there was a nice library you wouldn’t even notice.”

“I’d notice if I weren’t allowed in the library.”

“You’re like that chick in that Disney flick, what was her name, Belle. I’m going to buy you a yellow dress.”

He opened his mouth to object but he had to admit that he couldn’t quite see where he had a leg to stand on. “I’m not a girl,” he frowned. “She was probably taller.” 

“She had bigger boobs,” Dean snickered, which was Sam’s ultimate goal anyway. “You need to eat more. Come on, let’s see what Dad needs.”

“You go. I’m going to wrestle with the bed.” 

His brother paused but didn’t push the issue. Dad had understood the importance of not rushing Sam’s recovery, but he hadn’t been happy about it and he’d let his younger son know. Instead, the elder left the room but left the door open. “Hey, Dad,” he called. “What’s shaking?”

Sam turned back to his task. He still wasn’t at a hundred percent but some of that was the loss of stamina and fitness that came with a full eight weeks of forced inactivity. He’d get back to it. He wouldn’t have a choice. At least here he had a room with a door, and a bed of his own. Well, a bed equivalent. It was good enough. His father had decided that they were too old to share a bed, and he probably wasn’t exactly wrong. Dean had started to get kind of uncomfortable with the idea, which kind of hurt but whatever. If Dean wanted his own bed then he should have his own bed, and Sam would be glad he didn’t have to sleep on the floor or anything. Bardstown looked okay. They were actually staying in town for once, not on the outskirts. That meant he could walk to things like the library, and the school, and a park, and museums, and the library, and the library, and oh yeah – the library. He laughed a little at himself. Maybe Dean was right. If the chipped furnishings in the apartment started dancing and singing, though, he wasn’t about to start appreciating it. He was going for the salt and a lighter.

Dean came back to the room. “He says we can go poke around a little but we should be back by six.” 

Sam blinked. “Did you check him with silver?” 

“Yeah, brushed up against him when he passed me the school enrollment forms with my silver cuff. No reaction. You know what the school enrollment forms mean, kiddo.”

“Library card!” Sam jumped off the bed and clapped his hands with delight, not missing the smile on his sibling’s face. “Awesome! Come on, Dean. Let’s go, come on, before they close! Let’s go let’s go let’s go let’s go let’s go!” The blond laughed as the brunet trotted toward the door. Their father was in his bedroom and not even visible as they left. 

The local library was only about five blocks away and it was more or less empty. On a beautiful day like today in the early spring not many people were terribly interested in holing up indoors. That was okay with Sam. He wasn’t really interested in socializing yet. Right now he was more interested in the local resources available to him. Signing up for the library card – Dean of course had no interest – was quick and easy, and of course he was off to the races immediately. The librarian tried to point him to the children’s section. He politely thanked her and made for the local history section, where no less than six local history works made their way into his brother’s backpack for the continuation of their walk. 

It didn’t take long to figure out what it was about Bardstown that had attracted Dad. The number of distilleries was just staggering. The place seemed to celebrate its history with bourbon. The liquor’s mark was everywhere and worn with pride, which he supposed made sense. Bourbon seemed to be the major employer around here, so why wouldn’t it be celebrated? It wasn’t the booze’s fault that their dad was a nasty drunk. He wasn’t a big fan of how Dean’s eyes lit up at the sight, though. It also wasn’t the town’s only claim to tourist interest either. The Catholic Church had a long presence here that seemed to be commemorated. Was this part of something supernatural – was the monastery or the oldest church or the old convent sitting on something, preventing it from escaping? Or was it just coincidence? He made a mental note to look into it. There was the Civil War aspect too – apparently the place had a part to play during the war, which Sam had previously believed to have taken place entirely in Pennsylvania and Georgia. The books he’d taken with him should clear things up immensely. He almost couldn’t wait.

They did their exploring and made it back to the apartment building with fifteen minutes to spare. By this point their father had emerged from his own bedroom. He’d even gone out to get groceries, preparing them a magnificent feast of peanut butter sandwiches and alphabet soup. This, Sam thought to himself, might well be the best Friday he’d ever spent. “So, boys,” John Winchester rumbled. “What did you see in town?”

“Bourbon, Sir,” Dean grinned. “Apparently we’ve just lucked into the bourbon capital of the world.”

“Behave yourself, boy. You’re just fourteen.” His tone was indulgent. “I found a place for us to go shooting and such tomorrow. Sammy, I think you’re probably good to start training again.”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Tone down the enthusiasm, son. You don’t want to burst a vessel.” He rolled his dark eyes. “Let’s plan to get up early tomorrow and get started, shall we? For tonight we can have a night in.”

“Dad, I saw a video arcade –“

“Dean, stay in and watch your brother.”

“I don’t mind going with him, sir,” Sam hastened to inform.

“I said you’re staying in. That’s an order.” He banged a hand on the table and got up. 

The boys exchanged glances before Sam looked down. If it weren’t for Sam, Dean would be able to go out and enjoy the arcade or whatever else it was that he might want to do in a new town. And it wasn’t as though Sam couldn’t be left alone. He was almost ten, for crying out loud, and about the most boring kid on the planet. It wasn’t like he was going to drink all the beer or even use the stove. He’d curl up with his new books and read until he fell asleep, which was all he’d do with Dean home.

John left. “I guess he needs to do his own exploring, make sure the town is safe for us,” Dean declared after a moment, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“Sure, Dean.” He didn’t complain when his brother turned on the television. At least they could get the Reds in pre-season play. Sam actually liked baseball so he kept one eye on the game as he started digging into Bardstown’s past. 

He actually fell asleep on the couch wrapped around his book. Of course, not being a deep sleeper he jerked awake with his knife in his hand when his father stumbled in around two thirty. “What’re you doing out here, Sammy?” the old man slurred, trying to focus on him in the half-light of the streetlights through the window.

“Fell asleep on the couch sir,” he reported.

“Didn’t spend the money on the roll-away for you to be sleeping on the couch, boy.” 

He got up. “No, sir.” He padded into the bedroom, making no sound. Dean didn’t wake up as he crept into the rollaway. 

Six o’clock came around way too early for the boy’s tastes. Dean pulled the scratchy wool blanket off him with a smirk. “Rise and shine, Sammy!” he sneered. “Come on, get dressed. It’s time for our morning workout. Looks like it should be a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Let’s get a move on. Your first run since Pennsylvania – aren’t you at least a little excited?”

“I’ll be more excited at nine than I am now,” he grumbled, trying to pull the pillow back over his head. 

Dean thwarted him and flicked his ear while he was at it. “I’d get out of bed if I were you. Dad gave me five minutes to get you up and dressed before he does it, and he’s not feeling great.”

“Of course he’s not feeling great. He came home smelling like half of the distilleries in town disgorged themselves onto his shoes.” He grumbled but he sprang out of bed nonetheless, finding both sweats and sneakers in the dark without a problem. 

Their father led the way as the family run began through the streets of the town. Sam soon fell behind, as much from the lack of recent practice as from his own tiny stature. He struggled to keep up but there was only so much he could do; it felt like he was breathing through wet crackers. He knew better than to stop and rest though; his father would take it out of his hide. He let himself slow down a little. If worse came to worst he knew how to get back to the apartment. After three and a half miles he caught up to them; they were waiting by a street lamp. His father was scowling. “What the hell is wrong with you, Sammy?” he demanded. “You’ve had eight goddamn weeks off, you should be able to do this just fine.” 

“Sorry sir,” he wheezed.

“His lungs were pretty badly damaged, sir,” Dean hastened to add. “He probably needs to build his stamina back up.” 

“Oh he’ll work back up to it all right,” John muttered, turning his back. “No breaks, Sammy. I know you know how to get home.” He took off down the road, not even bothering to hold back any more. Sam dry heaved into the street but he’d heard his father. He knew better than to linger. He trotted along the trajectory that they’d taken, trying to pace himself as best he could. They outstripped him early of course, wound up far out of sight. He noticed little signs, though – a branch on a bush deliberately broken, or a stick dropped on the ground aimed in a certain direction. The route his father chose seemed to involve an awful lot of hills and twice Sam had to stop to bring up bile, but he was still able to find his way up the appropriate route back to the apartment building. His father and brother awaited him there and even let him catch his breath before making him change for target practice. He didn’t say anything to them either, but Dean followed him into the bedroom. “How come you didn’t just tell Dad you couldn’t do it?” 

“Because he’d make me do more of it just to punish me,” the boy retorted.

“He wouldn’t,” his brother sighed. “Don’t start that. If you’re not able to do things we need to know about it, Sammy. We can’t count on you having our back if we think you’re up to par when you’re not.”

“I’m never up to par, Dean.” He pulled a clean shirt over his head. “You know that. Let’s just go and get this over with.”

“Try to show a little enthusiasm, Sammy. It makes him happy.”

“I’m still trying to catch my breath, Dean. And when’s he going to worry about making me happy, huh?” His chest ached and his legs ached and his knees ached and his ankles ached. He supposed he should be glad that he’d been spared calisthenics or strength or sparring today.

Well, that turned Dean from supportive to “good little soldier” in about five milliseconds flat. “It’s not his job to make you happy, Sam. It’s his job to make you safe, to teach you to be ready. Try and appreciate that instead of being a whiny little bitch.” He left the room. Sam heard the apartment door close. He gave some thought to staying in the room with a book. He hated target practice, hated it more than any of the other training that they did. He wondered if they’d just leave without them. Probably not, he decided. They’d come back up and get angry, not necessarily in that order. Punishment would almost certainly ensue. He finished catching his breath, grabbed a glass of water and ran out the door. 

The Impala lurched into motion almost before he closed the door and they started driving out of town, out into the countryside. Target practice was one area in which their father had not really cut him any slack due to his injuries. If he could sit up long enough to go to school he could stand up long enough to fire a gun – a handgun at least if not the bigger guns. He’d suffered through each of those Saturdays just as he suffered through this one, although this time he had the added “pleasure” of the sawed-off and the regular shotguns to his routine. He didn’t fire as rapidly with the sawed-off as he would have liked but he hit all of his targets precisely. “Nice job, Sammy!” Dean crowed.

“You’d think he’d show a little pleasure in it,” John sneered. “Come on, Dean, let’s light ‘em up.”

They didn’t stay out long. Sam was elated until he found out why. They brought him home and then Dean grabbed his bag out of the bedroom. “Sam, I’m taking Dean out on a salt and burn out of town overnight. We should be back tomorrow night. If not, you can get yourself to school on Monday. There’s food to last you for a few days, not that you should need it,” the senior Winchester explained. “You know the rules, right?”

“Don’t open the door to anyone, check the salt lines every hour, only answer the phone if it’s you. Yes sir.” 

“You’ll do your running, other than that you’ll stay home tomorrow. You got that boy?” His father fixed him with a stern glare.

“Yes sir.” He tried not to hide his elation, and truth be told it wasn’t hard. On the one hand there was Dad and more importantly the absence of Dad, which was pretty awesome. On the other hand there was Dean and more importantly the absence of Dean, which was less awesome by a lot.

“And your calisthenics – today and tomorrow. You’ve gotten soft, boy. I’d like to be able to take you on this hunt, have you on as backup, but I just can’t. You can’t pull your weight and we can’t have slackers in this army, Sam. If Dean gets hurt that’s on you, because you let yourself get soft. Do you understand me?” 

He swallowed. “Yes sir.” Wouldn’t it be John’s fault if Dean got hurt? Those were bad thoughts to have. Of course it wasn’t Dad’s fault. It was Dean’s job to back John up, and it was Sam’s job to back Dean up. That was how John meant it to be anyway, and that was how John organized his hunts. Anything that happened was Sam’s fault for not falling into his place in the hunt. He knew that.

“Don’t burn the place down,” Dean urged, ruffling his hair and following their father out the door. Sam locked up behind them. 

He did some sit-ups, and some push-ups, and even some pull-ups on the bar their father had put up across the bathroom door. Only then did he permit himself the luxury of lunch in the form of half a peanut butter sandwich and a book. Two hours after the pair had left they called him – two rings, hang up, call again. “Sammy, it’s me,” Dean told him. Because it might have been someone else with that awkward alto-to-tenor squeak. “Just wanted you to know that Dad and I made it here okay.”

“That’s good. Any word on what you’re hunting?” 

“You don’t need to worry about that, Sammy.” He heard a large vehicle in the background, probably a truck. It honked its horn, so they were probably at a pay phone. Sleeping in the Impala then. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. “How’s things there?” 

“Quiet so far. Salt lines still seem intact. I’ve got my books and everything, so it should be pretty dull.”

“Listen, Dad wants to talk with you.” 

“Don’t put him on.” 

“I’ll talk to you later, Sammy.”

“Dean, wait, don’t –“

“Don’t what, Sammy?”

“Nothing, sir.”,

“Don’t nothing me boy. Did you not want to talk to your father?”

“No sir.”

“Is there something you don’t want to tell me Sammy?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you do your calisthenics?” 

“Yes, sir. Sit-ups, push-ups and pull-ups.”

“All right. Have you worked on your Latin yet?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Not yet, sir.” 

“Well what the hell were you waiting for, Sammy? A personal invitation? Did you think it was vacation time just because Dean and I were gone? Get up off your lazy ass and get busy. I want twenty incantations done for every day we’re gone, do you hear me? Oh – and I bought some cleaning supplies. I want that apartment freaking spotless when I get home. Got it?” 

He glanced at the large grease stain right behind the range. “Yes sir.”

“Get a move on.” 

“Can I talk to Dean again, sir?”

His father gave an aggravated sigh. “Fine. Don’t draw it out. There’s no need to get sappy, you just saw each other a couple of hours ago.”

“Heya, Sammy. Don’t throw any parties while we’re gone, okay?”

“Stay safe, Dean.” 

“You too, bitch.”

“Jerk.” 

They hung up. Sam looked longingly at his book, then he sighed. It was better to get the cleaning done now, and frankly the apartment could use it. That grease stain was the biggest problem that he could see. Fortunately he already knew how to deal with that: baking soda and elbow grease. He scrubbed, and he mopped, and he vacuumed, and he scrubbed some more. By the time eleven o’clock rolled around his muscles quivered and his body was covered in sweat, but the apartment had the scent of cheap knock-off cleaning supplies and every last stain was gone to include a few questionable biological stains in the bathroom that he figured were old enough that the cops probably had long since lost interest in. He decided to shower, scrubbing himself as clean as he possibly could, cleaned the tub (again) afterward and went to bed. 

Sunday came and the apartment was still clean. He let himself sleep in as late as ten, because there was no one to stop him. For a moment he considered just lying there in the bed, enjoying the absolute silence of the room and the pleasure of being alone. Well, the room wasn’t actually silent of course. There were people in the apartment on the left (having an argument), and people in the apartment on the right (feeling enthusiastic about college basketball). There were people in the apartment upstairs getting ready for some kind of outing, stomping around on the floor that became Sam’s ceiling. Immediately downstairs was a liquor store so at least that was quiet. The point, as far as Sam was concerned, was that he was alone. There was no one to come in and throw wadded up paper at him until he left the room. There was no one else to hog the bathroom. There was no one else to leave huge boots in a filthy heap. There was no one else to strip the bed and say, “Quit your shirking, Sammy! Do you think a puckwudgie cares that you’re tired and still recovering from near-fatal injuries?” He actually had peace, one of the rare times in his life, and he was tempted to sit down and enjoy it. 

At the same time he had no idea when his father and brother would return, and they would know. They would know if he slept more than this. Hell, they’d probably know that he’d slept this much. Dad had probably paid a neighbor to watch the door and report on what time he went out and what time he came back. He had to actually do something. And if he were to be forced into this miserable position of rear dog, he needed to be able to at least try to defend Dean. Besides, it wasn’t as if his father was going to let him off lightly. He was going to have to build his stamina back one way or another, and lying in bed wasn’t going to do it. Even though his muscles screamed at him he forced himself to get out of bed, put his workout clothes on and go for a run. He limited himself to five miles, though – it was as much as his normal morning workouts before he’d gotten hurt and still left him gasping at the end. Afterward he did his calisthenics, followed by Latin. His family hadn’t called by the time he finished so he packed for school and set out some clothing for himself. Then he settled down on the couch with his book.

His alarm went off at six the next morning. He was still alone. He felt a certain amount of alarm at that but his father had prepared him for that, hadn’t he? He went for his morning run and even had enough time for some calisthenics before walking to school. 

School was… well, it was okay. The class wasn’t huge, but the teacher was one of those very earnest and enthusiastic teachers who wanted to Share and Care and insisted on referring to all of the students as each others’ “friends.” “Students,” Ms. Hill beamed as he stood at the front of the class, “I want you to meet your new friend Sam Winchester! Sam, say hello to all your new friends and why don’t you share a little something about yourself and where you’re from.” 

Sam hated these little share-and-care sessions. He considered informing the class that he could hit a quarter at seventy-five yards but then decided that wouldn’t be a very normal way to warm up a room. It would probably result in a trip to the principal’s office, followed by a call to his father, who was away, which would just be all kinds of bad. So he just looked at the ground. “I’m Sam,” he said. “Not much to tell, I guess. We just moved here from Knoxville.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from Knoxville,” a freckled boy near the middle of the class pointed out with a smirk. 

“We move around a lot.” There was no one in the class with rattier clothing than Sam had. Plenty of them probably wore hand-me-downs. Most of the original owners of their clothes probably hadn’t been killing monsters while wearing it. 

“Well, Sam, I’m sure all that moving around will give you all sorts of interesting stories to share with your friends during recess and lunch,” Ms. Hill crooned. “Why don’t you have a seat right down there next to Chloe and we can get started with our science lesson for today, shall we? All the friends like science, right?”

Sam hurried to his seat, the only empty one. Chloe, a red-headed girl who had to be at least a head and a half taller than he was, gave him a serious look and then what was probably supposed to be a smile. He got through the morning without having to talk to anyone. Lunch came and he took a corner of a table by himself with his half a peanut butter sandwich. He wondered where Dean was. Had they done their job? Was Dean okay, or had he been hurt somehow? Was that what was keeping Dad and Dean wherever it was that they had gone? His leg twitched and he taped his foot without even really noticing as he nibbled on the delicacy, trying to make the meal last the whole period. 

Gym came immediately after lunch – probably not the best idea, but someone had to have lunch then and apparently it was Sam’s class. He changed with the others, glad for once to not have much in the way of bruising to hide. There were scars, of course. “Where’d you get the scars, Winchester?” the freckled boy with the smirk wanted to know. 

Well, an evil spirit wanted to make my chest explode. “Hit by a car,” he explained. “Always look both ways when you’re crossing the street.” He pulled his shirt on. The freckled kid was larger than he was, and he had approached with two other larger kids. They had identical looks of smug disdain on their faces and the one on the left was cracking his knuckles. Ah. 

Other “friends” were gathering around. Some looked worried, some looked curious, some looked like they were waiting for their favorite cartoon to start. So that was how this was going to go then. “We’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Winchester,” Freckles said. “Thing is, we don’t take kindly to Yankees around here. And you might have come here from Knoxville but you didn’t come to Knoxville from Dixie.” 

What kind of TV shows had this kid been watching? Sam hadn’t interacted with a lot of people here but no one had taken issue with his origins yet, not here and not in Knoxville. Not in Martinsburg either. “You’re a real credit to your hometown, Freckles,” he told the bully. When the first punch came in Sam easily deflected it and used the boy’s own momentum to push him into a locker head first. Freckles went down, unconscious. The next boy, Sam called him Knuckles, charged at him with a yell and swung wildly with both hands. Sam just sidestepped and let him trip over Freckles. The third boy, who Sam decided to call Boring, took a more cautious approach. He took a couple of cautious jabs at Sam’s face before directing an uppercut at his chin. It might have worked on most of the other kids but Sam was used to fighting John Winchester, the veteran of a thousand bar fights and someone who had not been particularly concerned to go light on his nine-year-old son. Sam could read his move easily and twisted his arm up and behind his back. He would have dislocated his opponent’s elbow had the gym teacher not come upon them. “What’s going on in here?” he demanded in consternation, eyebrows crawling like worms up into his hairline. 

Sam felt his heart sink. This was it. He’d screwed up again, only this time he’d screwed up worse than ever before. Social services would get called in, because this time they’d call home and they’d figure out his father had left him alone. He’d be separated from Dean and that would be the end of it. “I… they…” “It was Tyler, Mr. Meyer,” burst in another boy. “Tyler and Austin and Logan. They ganged up on the new kid because they figure he’s a Yankee.”

“Shut up Benjamin,” grunted Boring. Sam realized he still had the kid’s arm. “I’ll get you next if you don’t shut up.”

“It’s easy to see why you’re going to repeat third grade, Logan,” Mr. Meyer sighed. He glanced at the rest of the boys. “Is this true?” They nodded slowly. None of them wanted to be the one to snitch of course, but now that Benjamin had broken that seal it was okay. It looked like more than a few of them had run afoul of the little trio’s activities in the past. “All right. “You and Austin, get to my office. Benjamin, you go get the school nurse.” Sam let go of Logan’s arm. “The rest of you get out to the gym. We’re playing soccer today.” He looked at Sam. “You too, Sam.”

His eyebrows drew together. This was not how this scenario had played out in his head, but he let his feet follow the others into the gym. He wasn’t surprised when he was the first one picked for a team either – he’d just made a pretty impressive display of dexterity and reflex. After a moment the gym teacher came out and got involved, shouting encouragement and blowing his whistle more or less at random.

After class, when it was time to change, Mr. Meyer summoned Sam to his side. “I’m sorry about what happened in the locker room, sir,” he began, but the teacher interrupted him with a wave of his hand.

“Sam, you defended yourself against three notorious bullies. That’s not something you should really have to apologize for. Tyler wasn’t badly concussed and I’d like to think that all three of them have learned a valuable lesson about picking on the new kid. I don’t know how they do things back in Knoxville or wherever you came from before that but around here you don’t really get in trouble for standing up for yourself.” He grinned when Sam gave a little laugh. “Listen, I had a little proposition for you. You’re pretty athletic.” 

Sam shrugged. He’d never thought of himself as particularly athletic. Compared to Dean he was clumsy as Hell or so his father was always telling him, but he was pretty fast. And he was in better condition than any third grader on the field, he knew that even after such a long layoff. “I guess so. I never really thought of myself that way.”

“Did you ever play on a soccer team before, Sam?” 

He couldn’t help but snort again. “My dad isn’t… he doesn’t care for team sports. He never let us play them.” 

Meyer blinked. “Really? Why not?” “He’s not a real people person. And we do move around a lot. I don’t think he’d ever be okay with me joining a team, sir.”

“Well, here’s the thing, Sam. I mean, you can obviously handle yourself just fine, but those kids are going to come back and if they come after you off school property I’m not going to be as able to protect you. If you’re playing on my team, well, practice is after school, you see? So they’re not going to come after you where there’s a crowd of witnesses. Not again. And I can probably smooth things over with your father. The team could really use someone with your talent, Sam.” 

The boy thought about it. He knew his father would be angry. At the same time, he needed to improve his conditioning after his long time away. Soccer would help with that. And it would help him to blend in, avoid attention. “Is practice tonight, sir?”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Dean come home. John takes off again. Sam finds a case that might be interesting enough to keep him around the next time he comes back to town.

Sam liked soccer practice. It was held in the field behind the school and included kids from third and fourth grades, so he wasn’t the oldest kid there. He’d expected that they would just run around and play soccer the whole time and that wasn’t it at all. There were drills and they were weird, but he could do them easily. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t used to that sort of thing and at least he could see the point of these – build up strength, build up agility, develop skills to improve the game. The teacher-cum-coach handed him a uniform and some paperwork and told him not to worry about fees.

Dad and Dean were still not home when he let himself back into the apartment so he cleaned himself up, made another half peanut butter sandwich for dinner and did his homework. Then he did his Latin translations. He knew he probably should have done the Latin first but his ordering was a tiny act of rebellion, something he could do entirely for himself and he wallowed in it.

By eight o’clock he still found himself alone, so he examined the paperwork from the coach. There was the permission slip – he would only forge it if he had to. There was the medical form – well, that he had no moral problem forging, since he had no actual physician here in Kentucky and he was going to get no actual physician here in Kentucky. He had no actual physician at all. The only doctors he’d ever been to see were the pediatrician he’d had in Lawrence before he’d even been a year old and the ER doctor in Pennsylvania. He plugged in what he thought was more or less appropriate and made up signatures based on names from the phone book cobbled together.

His family finally staggered back in at nine thirty. Sam stood at attention when the door opened, staring straight ahead. Dean looked awful – pale and exhausted, with a shirt that was more than a little crusted with blood. Dad didn’t look so hot himself, face bruised and holding his arm tenderly. He didn’t greet Sam, though, just inspected the apartment for dirt as the boy stared at the wall. Dean supported himself on the back of the naugahide couch. “You re-organized the cabinets?”

“Sir.”

“Why?”

“Had to clean them anyway, sir.”

John grunted. “All right. Go help your brother, then you can help me. You’re dismissed.” Sam and Dean both relaxed.

Dean had the med kit already in his bag; he pulled it out and dragged it into the bathroom. The younger brother helped him off with his shirt and winced at what he saw. “Jeez, Dean, what happened?” he asked, cutting the makeshift bandages off with a knife. Duct tape and a dirty tee-shirt – that would have been Dad’s idea. It was hard to believe that the man had saved lives in Vietnam sometimes.

“Sometimes ghosts just don’t want to move on, Sammy.” He winced as the air hit his wound, which was a significant gash across his right bicep and still bleeding. “That’s going to need stitches, isn’t it?”

“Damn straight it’s going to need stitches.”

“You kiss your daddy with that mouth?” 

“No.” He frowned. “That’s already looking puffy, Dean. I think it’s getting infected.”

“There’s a shocker. Ghost was on a pig farm. The remains were under the floorboards of an old slave cabin, which was now a pig shed – nice, huh?” He looked like he wanted to spit until Sam started to clean the area with alcohol; then he just looked like he wanted to scream. “Jesus, Sammy, you cauterizing it or what?”

“Quit your bellyaching. So the remains were under the pig shed that used to be a slave cabin. What was the ghost’s deal?” 

“Who knows? I mean, it was a slave owner who got buried under a slave cabin so I guess he was pretty upset about that. Or maybe he was just pissed about getting pissed on by pigs.”

“Pigs generally don’t eliminate where they sleep, Dean. They’re actually very clean animals.” He spread some antibiotic ointment onto the wound as gently as he could.

“You’re such a nerd.”

“You could try reading a book sometime.”

“You could try not being a little bitch.” 

He threaded the needle. “You could try not being a giant jerk.”

“Jesus, Sammy!” the blond howled. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

“How is it that you can get flung across a pig pen by a vengeful slave owning spirit covered in pig poop without complaining but a little bit of alcohol and a needle and you’re crying like a baby?” Sam was good at stitches. In fact, judging by the scars on his chest and abdomen, he was better than a lot of doctors. Maybe he’d go to med school someday. No, that was a stupid thought. It was better not to have “someday” thoughts. He was probably going to die before graduating high school anyway, at least if his father had anything to say about it. “Is it the penetrative aspect, Dean?”

“What? No! What the hell is wrong with you? Ow! Jesus! Do you have to do so many stitches? Fuck!” 

“If I keep the stitches small you won’t have such a scar, and it won’t be such a big deal if you pop a stitch,” he pointed out. “Would you quit your squirming?”

“Chicks dig scars,” Dean pointed out. 

“Maybe a few small ones.” Sam was not in a position to know, or really to care, what girls liked. “I don’t think they’re into guys who look like they were put together by Dr. Frankenstein but that’s your call.” He tied the thread off. “There. All done. Let me clean that out again.” He poured antiseptic over the injury, prompting a new round of howling. “Go tell Dad that I’m ready for him and that you’re going to need a round of antibiotics. I know he stole some from the hospital in Pennsylvania.”

Dad came in next and took up a seat on the closed toilet. His shirt was already off, revealing welts on his chest and back. The bad news was that there were quite a few of them. The good news was that none of them were likely to need stitches, which meant that he could get his father out of here sooner rather than later. “Did you make it to school today, Sammy, or did you stay here and eat bon-bons?”

Sam scowled. He wasn’t even entirely sure what a bon-bon was. “I went to school, sir.”

“Did you do your running this morning?”

“Yes sir.”

“How far?”

“Five miles. Sir,” he added at the glare.

The older male hissed as alcohol touched his skin. “You couldn’t be bothered to try a little harder, Sam?” 

Of course. Of course his father expected him to come back from an injury and long layoff better than he’d gone into it – after all, he’d had all that time to rest. “Sir, it’s what I was doing before I was hurt –“

“I know that boy. I want to know why you won’t do more than the bare minimum. Why this isn’t important to you. Your brother and I are out there getting ourselves hurt, running ourselves ragged every day and you’re here living like a goddamn princess.” He hissed again.

“I, uh, signed up for a soccer team.”

“You did what?” His father rose and turned with all the speed of a mountain lion. “You little idiot!” He advanced on him and Sam backed up, falling backwards into the tub. “What the hell made you think that was a good idea?”

“It was the coach’s idea sir. He thought it would keep me out of some trouble without drawing attention, sir,” he said hurriedly. “And I thought it would help me build up my stamina again, you know, extra workouts.” Extra workouts that are designed for kids my age, he thought spitefully but kept to himself.

John had already grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise, but his grip lightened at the word “stamina.” “What kind of trouble?” he asked, hauling him out of the tub a little less harshly than he might have done otherwise. So Sam explained about the three bullies in the locker room and how he’d taken care of it. The coach had been right. He could take care of himself against these three, but in the absence of witnesses it would be his word against theirs and he was just a drifter kid with no roots while they were from relatively prominent families. The coach had invited him to join the team so he’d have witnesses around him instead of being left alone and forced to deal with them more harshly. And it was a good idea, ultimately. It would be a good way to get more workouts in and build his stamina and agility back up. “You understand this would be in addition to your expected workouts, if I let you do this,” the old man growled. 

“Of course, sir,” he replied quickly, careful not to show any pleasure.

“And no interfering with shooting practice.”

“Games are usually on weeknights or, rarely, on Saturday afternoons sir.” 

“All right. We can work this into your normal schedule, but don’t go thinking that you can slack off your regular workload.” 

“No sir. Thank you sir.” He finished cleaning and dressing his father’s wounds, then brought the permission slip for John to sign before he could change his mind. Then he scurried off into the bedroom.

Dean walked him to school the next day, a decent night’s sleep doing wonders for his pallor. The antibiotics would help with the rest, although Sam could have wished that he’d gotten to see an actual doctor instead of relying on some stolen pills. Whatever – it wasn’t like it was the first time. School itself was tolerable. The work was pretty easy and he got to go to practice afterward, so that was all right. Dean showed up to walk him home afterward, which didn’t surprise him at all. After they got home they had to spar for an hour before their father would let them eat. “I caught wind of another job,” Dad told them as Sam nursed a nasty bruise on his shin. 

“I started school two days ago!” the boy objected before he could stop himself. “What the hell?” 

“You watch your tone with me boy,” the black-haired man told him evenly. “You know goddamn well that your mother comes before everything. She comes before school, she comes before some crappy apartment, she comes before our lives if need be. Don’t you ever forget that, you hear me?” He fixed Sam with a glare. 

Sam had been determined not to look away, but his brother elbowed him. “Yes, sir.” He looked down and bit his lip.

“As it happens this one is a little far afield and I’ll be backing up some other hunters. I shouldn’t be gone too long, but Dean, you’re old enough to keep an eye on Sammy for a couple of weeks. I’ll leave you some cash and I’ve paid for the apartment for a full month just in case.” He glared at Sam again. “Does that meet with your precious sensibilities, princess?”

“Yes, sir.” Sam didn’t push his food away – he didn’t dare – but he couldn’t bring himself to eat the rest of it. On the one hand Dad was going to be gone for a couple of weeks and that was just fantastic. On the other hand Dad never quite left enough cash to get them by, and of course he’d had to open his big mouth before he had all the facts. Dad already hated him; now he just hated him more. As soon as his father told him he was dismissed he retreated to his room to fetch his shower things, wash up and retreat again. He didn’t see his father the next morning, and he was gone before Sam came home from practice the next day. 

Dean wasn’t happy about the loss. “I wish he’d take me with him,” the blond complained when he came to pick Sam up from practice. “I don’t see why he makes me stay behind like this.”

“Maybe because you’re fourteen and the law says you have to stay in school?” Sam suggested. 

“Screw the law, man. We can make me an ID that says I’m thirty if we need to.” He kicked at a rock in the sidewalk. “This sucks. I’d rather be gankin’ monsters than screwing around reading about the stupid three branches of government.”

“That stuff’s important, Dean.”

“Who cares? It’s not like we pay taxes.” 

“We could. I mean, you got your working papers from the nurse, right? You could go work at that grocery store across the street,” he amended to cover for the lapse. It wouldn’t do for Dean to think he was encouraging him to leave John Winchester’s Army, no no no. “And you’d be paying taxes then, don’t you want to know what you’re paying taxes for? Don’t you want to know something about which authorities you’re avoiding or scamming?”

“I figure you’ll tell me, short stack. You’re the real reason Dad makes me stay behind, you know. He doesn’t want to leave you alone for two weeks.” 

“He doesn’t care if I’m alone, Dean. Believe me. “

“Aw, Sam, don’t start that now, all right? He cares. He wants you to be safe.” 

“That’s why he set me out as bait and let Trotter Head eat me.”

“You looked just fine to me out there on the field, which is more than I can say for the little girl it ate. Suck it up, Sammy. We save people. That’s what we do. Sometimes we get hurt. It’s a risky job.” 

“That’s fine if you’re taking the risks for yourself, if you’re the one making that choice,” he retorted.

“You would have made the choice yourself if you weren’t such a whiny little bitch. Come on. Dad said we had to do knife practice and calisthenics before dinner. I’ll race you home.” He ran toward the apartment. Sam sighed and trudged along behind. 

They did their knife fighting and their usual calisthenics before sitting down to canned soup and more peanut butter. “So what do you think of the new school?” Sam asked his brother, hoping that it was a good enough neutral topic.

He shrugged. “Meh. It’s okay. Courses seem okay, girls seem okay. Had one kid try to give me a hassle, he won’t be doing that again. Which is kind of a pity because I was kind of hoping for a good fight.”

“What sparked it?”

“His girl gave me her phone number.” 

“I thought that crap wasn’t supposed to happen until high school.” 

“What would you know about it, pipsqueak?” He smirked. “Her name was Destiny. Destiny Waterson, and she kisses like there is no tomorrow.”

“You’ve already kissed her? Dude. Gross. Like seriously, you’ve been at this school for two days.”

“So? She’s a little more adventurous than Abigail Rogers or Linda Babian, but not quite as frisky as Trina Hathaway.” He smirked at Sam’s recoil. “What? I’ve only got one life to live, dude. You’ll understand someday. This body’s a temple, Sam. It’s only natural if some people want to worship at it.”

“Leaving offerings of cheesy poofs and cheep beer, I suppose?”

“Shut up.” He ate a few mouthfuls of soup. “That’s not a bad idea about getting a job at the grocery across the street though. I mean, there are only so many hours they can allow me to pick up but whatever, right? It’s something, and then if Dad takes longer than expected we’ll be more okay than otherwise.”

“I don’t want you to have to do that, Dean.” Sam bit his lip. “We’re in a real town, it’s not like I can reciprocate and get a job too, you know?” 

“Shut up. You’re playing soccer. Besides, I like working. It’s a good chance to meet girls. I’ll tell them I have to have Saturday mornings off because of Dad and that’ll be okay. I’ll see about a job there or somewhere tomorrow.” He finished his soup and went over to the phone. “I’ve got some calls to make, short stuff. You can take your shower first.” 

The next day at school was much like the first three, with one exception. Logan, the brightest of the bullies from Monday, showed up only long enough to grab his things and go. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying and his skin was blotchy and pale. Sam wasn’t ordinarily particularly concerned about what happened in the lives of bullies so long as it wasn’t visited upon his head but then again, bullies didn’t usually come into school and show such weakness without significant cause. Sam of course had been in enough schools to have some idea how these things played out. The whispers started almost as soon as the door closed behind him. Ordinarily he’d have expected to have to wait until a gym day to hear anything, but now he actually had friends from the team and so he got to hear things directly from the rumor mill instead of overhearing in the locker room. “Did you hear?” Noah asked him in a hushed voice at lunch. “Did you hear what happened to Logan’s brother?”

“No,” he said. “Tell me.”

“He got killed in his car last night.” 

“Was it an accident?”

“Maybe,” Curtis frowned. He had the best lunches, full of vegetables cut into these interesting shapes and everything. “They found his car down by the bridge. I guess it’s going to have to be a closed-casket funeral.” 

The trio considered the magnitude of this, both in terms of gore and sadness. Of course someone losing a brother was terrible – the possibility was something Sam lived with every day. So was gore, though, and gore never really got old. Not to a nine-year-old anyway, or an eight-year-old. “That’s the third car by that bridge this school year,” Noah observed. 

Sam’s eyes drew together. “Really? Are they all locals?”

“Naw.” The redhead shook his head. “The last one was a tourist, but they’re all kind of young. The oldest I think was maybe twenty. It’s always couples though.”

“Couples? Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. Everyone likes to go up by that old bridge. It’s a great scenic overlook. It’s supposed to be a great make-out spot if you’re into that kind of thing.” Curtis made a face. “You know. Girls. Kissing. Eeuw.” 

Sam shuddered. “I guess they must get pretty distracted.” He’d have Dean mention it to their father. It might not be a big deal, but he’d want to know. And it would be something for the old man to investigate while he was in the area, which might keep him in the area for a while. Maybe he could even finish out the school year in Bardstown. He liked it here. “That stuff’ll rot your brain.”

“What do you know about it, Winchester?” Noah scoffed. “The only girl I’ve seen you within fifty feet of is Chloe, and that’s just because you have to.” 

“I have a big brother. I can see what it does well enough. I don’t need to try it.” He grimaced. “Is there anything special about that bridge?”

“No. It’s pretty enough, but it’s just a pretty bridge. I mean, it replaced an ugly bridge.” Curtis laughed. 

They practiced after school. Dean came to get him, enthusiastic about having gotten the job at the grocery store. They wouldn’t give him more than twenty hours a week but that was better than nothing and it would really help out their financial situation. They chatted on the walk a little bit and did their sparring and their workout. When they sat down to dinner Sam mentioned the deaths and the bridge to his brother, who grunted. “Interesting, but it could just be coincidence. I wouldn’t bother Dad with it right now, not while he’s on a case, you know?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I mean, if a bunch of other hunters called him in for backup he doesn’t need to be worrying about you with that stuff, you know? But it might give him something local to do when he gets back, you know?”

“Aw, you do miss him, Sammy. I knew you would!”

Dean looked so proud it seemed like a shame to burst his bubble. “Uh, no, Dean. But I know that you do, and I know you’re sad that you didn’t get to work with him on this. But you could work with him on that. You know, together.”

“We could work with him on the bridge thing. If it pans out. Together. We’re a family, Sam.”

“No, Dean. He wouldn’t bring me along, he wouldn’t want me there screwing things up for him. Not unless there was another thing looking to eat me, and I wouldn’t want to be there. I’m not exactly eager to get eaten again.” He held up a hand. “Let’s just not, okay? We’re not going to agree on this. But I’ll help you figure out what to tell him in order to get him to stick around next time he comes to town, okay?” 

“What do you get out of it?” “A happy big brother. Duh.” 

Dean grinned. “You’re a giant girl, Samantha.” 

“I’m pretty short, Deana.”

“You’ll grow. Look at those canal boats you call feet.” 

Sam privately doubted that. He’d probably grow eventually, but he’d never be bigger than Dean. That was okay. He didn’t really want to be.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam learns more about the case, getting some help from some important connections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains some mild abuse. 
> 
> Also, I have no idea what the layout of historic Bardstown would be. I've never been, although I'm agitating to rectify this in the relatively near future. (Research for this story has been interesting.)

Despite the early rough start Sam decided he liked Bardstown and liked school in Bardstown even better. Having friends was a huge bonus – almost like he’d been back in Lancaster County again. Noah and Curtis were the closest of them. Even by Wednesday they made a cozy little triumvirate that were inseparable any time they weren’t required to be in their assigned seats. Chloe was slowly brought around to realizing that boys did not in fact have cooties but did have brains, and by Thursday people were already complaining about the four of them wrecking the grading curve.

Another advantage the school had was in having mostly native Bardstonians as instructors. Ms. Hill had picked up some odd ideas about elementary education somewhere along the line and the subject matter she had to offer seemed incredibly basic to the nine-year-old, but her family had been in the small city since its foundation and there wasn’t much that she didn’t know about its history or lore and she was more than willing to share. When Sam showed up early – Dean dropped him off before heading over to school himself – she responded willingly to questions about Civil War skirmishes and early Catholic migration patterns. When she started to recognize that her newest pupil was far and away more advanced beyond the rest of her class she started assigning him projects and reading centered around the questions he asked her. He kept his face composed into wide-eyed wonder but inside he cackled with glee. It gave him a chance to research everything he could about the town during school time and get away with it, up to and including the bridge where three couples had been attacked. 

Of course he had to be subtle and take his time because he couldn’t very well go up to his teacher and say, “I think there’s some kind of vengeful spirit going after couples making out by your scenic overpass.” That would put an end to his projects fairly quickly, and to soccer and probably to his tenure in Bardstown. Besides, with a history like Bardstown had there must be more than a stupid bridge to keep hunters like Dad and Dean sticking around for a while at least, right? Maybe they could at least finish out the school year here?

They heard from Dad on Wednesday, or rather Dean did. He called to make sure that they were keeping up with their training – Sam in particular. He checked to make sure that Sam was also keeping up with the Latin, which it wasn’t like Sam was going to neglect. He actually liked the Latin. Fortunately the senior Winchester didn’t actually want to speak to the junior Winchester at all. “He didn’t have time, Sammy,” Dean tried to reassure him. “He’s on a job, you know how it is.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” he replied. “Really, it is. I don’t mind.”

“I know you wanted to talk to him about all the stuff you’re doing in school.” 

“He doesn’t think that’s important, Dean. He doesn’t want to hear about it, so it would just annoy him.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. Hey, check this out.” He pulled out one of his library books. “Check out the layout of all these old religious sites – the churches and the convent and the cemetery.”

“It makes a cross,” his brother noted as Sam traced the lines. “Interesting. I wonder if it’s important?”

“I don’t know. It could be worth looking into.” 

Soccer was Sam’s favorite part of Bardstown. He liked it better than the history, better than the lore, better than (or at least as much as) being alone with Dean and having Dad away. It wasn’t even the sport itself, because when it came to sports Sam preferred baseball with its statistics and its metrics and its geometry and calculus. It wasn’t the training, because frankly the training (being designed for children) was a lot less rigorous than what he was used to from his father and brother. For the first time in his life Sam was part of something, and he’d been accepted as part of something from the moment he’d shown up. He’d just put in an appearance, gotten in the line and started on passing drills. 

This had never been the case with his family. He was technically a Winchester. That was the name on his birth certificate, the name under which he’d been enrolled in school. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’d been the child that emerged from Mary Winchester’s womb on May 2, 1983. His father apparently had entertained some doubts about whether the Winchester name was actually appropriately applied, confided them to his journal in an oblique manner and dismissed them but Sam had seen them written out there all the same. He’d even looked up the word “incubus,” just to be sure. 

Even without that little tidbit – and what a great Christmas present that had been, finding out your father sometimes suspected you’d been fathered by some kind of creepy demonic creature! – he knew he didn’t really belong here. He wasn’t good enough, wasn’t strong enough. He didn’t want it enough. He was just wrong. What kind of kid didn’t burn with the desire for revenge for a murdered mother? Apparently Sam. He hadn’t even mourned, just moved on like nothing was wrong or like his smoky lungs were the most important things in the world or something. More important than the woman who had given him life. And sure, it was sad that she’d died but he didn’t see what running around like they did and almost getting killed on a regular basis was going to do to change anything. It wasn’t going to bring her back, and what kind of mother wanted that for her sons?

There were the bad thoughts again. No wonder he would never fit in with the other two. They were clean, shining. They wanted what was right. He was too selfish to think of Mary, burning. He was the dirty one, the wrong one. He couldn’t even fake it. He was so scared every time he saw Dean come back covered in bruises or gore he lashed out, and he just knew there had to be more to life than an early grave achieved by painful means. He literally had nothing to offer. 

His father knew it. His father told him, every time the subject came up. His body was too short, too weak, too slow, too clumsy. His soul was too disinterested, too selfish, too stubborn, too uncaring. His mind – well, as far as his father was concerned his mind was of little use or importance. It could only hinder them in the long term. The best thing Sam could do would be to stop using it altogether.

Practice didn’t happen every day of course. Not at the third-and-fourth grade levels. They practiced every day except Sunday and Wednesday, though. It was on that first Sunday that Sam got a line on making some extra money. One of the women that lived in their building saw him coming back from the store with some cleaning supplies, replacing what he’d used in that first marathon cleaning session. She was middle-aged and looked tired. “Are you picking that up for your mom, boy?” she asked him. 

“No ma’am,” he replied. “I do the cleaning here.” 

“You any good at it?” 

He shrugged. “I pass inspection.”

She gave a little laugh that didn’t sound at all humorous. “I’ll tell you what, boy. I’ve got a bunch of distillery tasting rooms to clean today and my help quit on me. If you’ll help me out I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

He thought about it. Dean would be mad, but Dean was working. He didn’t have anything else going on today and their emergency stash could stand to be topped up. He held out a hand. “My name’s Sam.”

She grinned, more than a few teeth missing. “I’m Samantha.” He left a note for Dean and went with the woman.

It turned out that she had left an abusive husband in Mississippi and come to Bardstown, but still found it difficult to make ends meet so she did what she could. She’d started out waiting tables, which was okay but depended a lot on tips. It made her enough to get through hairdressing school, though, so she had a day job doing hair while keeping her night job waiting tables. When she’d gotten enough to get by her ex sued for alimony and won, so she’d started up this cleaning company mostly solo to make up for the lost income. That jerk had ruined enough of her life; he wasn’t going to get what was left of it. Sam had to admire her determination.

The work was hard – those tasting rooms were fancy, but that made them hard to clean. He had tiny hands and a great eye for detail though so while they were hard to clean they got clean. He scrubbed and polished while Samantha mopped and vacuumed, and between them they got through five tasting rooms in about five hours. It would have taken her half again as long at least if she’d had to do it herself, and probably wouldn’t have been nearly as thorough. She paid him cash, since he clearly wasn’t old enough to be doing this at all, and asked if he’d be willing to help out again. “I’d probably be able to do Wednesdays and Sundays,” he offered, “but if my dad or my brother objects I’m going to have to back out.”

“Fair enough,” she smiled, and drove them both home. 

Dean was predictably livid when he returned, although he waited until the door was closed before punching him in the face. “I was worried sick!” he hollered. 

“I left a note,” the smaller boy replied, grabbing an ice pack out of the fridge and holding it up to his jaw. He’d more or less expected the blow.

“Yeah, I saw your note. How did you know she was who she said she was, huh? How do you know she wasn’t a shifter? Or some other kind of monster? Or a hunter? You do remember that freaky albino who was hunting you, right Sammy?” The blond stood over him seething, fist still clenched. 

Sam reached down into his boot and withdrew his silver knife. “I’m not stupid, Dean,” he replied softly. “I didn’t go in unarmed. I knew we needed the money, especially if Dad’s going to be gone for longer than he intended. Our emergency fund is getting kind of low and I thought it would be good to top it up. She lives here in the building, I’ve seen her around. She lived here before we moved in, and Dad wasn’t planning the move here until just before we moved. So she couldn’t have been stalking us, okay? I can make us some extra money on days that aren’t soccer days so I’m not breaking training, Dad will never even know.” 

The elder sibling glared, but he couldn’t refute Sam’s logic. “Fine,” he sighed. “But you’re doing five hundred crunches for not clearing it with me first and making me worry. I was right across the street, Sammy. Right there.” 

He rolled his eyes but dropped and did his punishment. It hadn’t been good of him to make Dean worry, after all. His brother counted every single crunch and then ordered him to clean the apartment before he could shower or eat or do homework, but that was okay. What he didn’t do was tell Dad about the incident when he called that night, which was the important thing.

The days settled into a kind of pattern. He went to school and practice. He kept the apartment spotless – even took a certain amount of pride in that, because it was something he could control and something he could actually do. He even managed to keep the worst of the pests out. It was also something he didn’t need to depend on others for evaluation for. He could see dirt for himself. He could scrub it for himself. He could see that he it was gone all by himself. No one had to tell him that he’d done it well; he knew it. Twice a week Samantha let him help her clean the tasting rooms at the distilleries, and she even gave him a raise. Through his “special” schoolwork he started amassing evidence of possible cases in the local area and setting them aside. He didn’t go checking anything out by himself. If he had his way, and he knew he wouldn’t but it was worth saying, he would never check anything out at all and neither would Dean. Still, Dean wanted Dad around and that would mean more local hunts. Sam was determined to oblige his beloved older brother as much as he could. 

Their father called twice a week. Dean was the only one who actually spoke with him. Neither Sam nor John was particularly interested in rectifying this state of affairs. Dean’s word as to Sam’s progress with regards to training was good enough for John and that was what he cared about.

As for Dean, life started looking up. He had his usual string of girlfriends – three or four at the middle school, maybe two up at the high school, Sam was hard pressed to keep track. His job at the grocery store wasn’t bringing in a lot of money but it was an important supplement to what their father had left them. The employee discount was a bonus too. He did the bare minimum at school but that wasn’t exactly unexpected – he didn’t see the point to being at school so he kind of ignored it until he couldn’t. 

After two weeks of just practice the soccer team started to actually have games. Sam didn’t expect this to be a big deal. After all, it was only a game. No lives were at stake. What was the worst that could happen – a twisted ankle? A bruised shin? (His father would be livid if he hurt his ankle badly enough to require missing out on training but he wouldn’t think about that; he’d just not hurt his ankle.) Still, the boy couldn’t help but feel the anticipation build as he watched the other team assemble across the field in their yellow shirts. “They’re so tall,” Curtis whispered to him. He glanced at the other boy. Curtis was the goalie, solidly built and taller than anyone else on their team. Still, he had a point.

“It doesn’t matter how tall they are, Curtis,” he pointed out. “They’re not allowed to go into the crease, remember? You just pay attention to where the ball is.”

“But what about you, Winchester?” Noah asked. “Some of those guys are like two of you.” 

“Don’t worry about me. I’m so short they won’t even see me coming.” Sam’s father and brother had been mocking his speed and agility for as long as he could remember. Apparently when compared to other kids in his age range, though, he wasn’t half bad. (Dean, of course, had been a god. He couldn’t hold a candle to Dean’s prowess, even at nine.) He’d been assigned to an offensive role and he’d done well in scrimmages, but today would be the first time he’d actually put it into practice against kids he hadn’t seen before.

They took their positions on the field and waited for the whistle to blow. Sam’s palms were sweaty and his mouth dry. This was stupid. He’d been an idiot to think this was going to work. It had only been a few weeks since he’d been mauled, not even a full quarter since his body had rejected a blood transfusion and almost killed him. He could re-injure himself, open wounds that weren’t even healed yet. He could just make a fool of himself and have everyone laugh at him.

The whistle blew. There was a hollow “thunk” sound as Mikey Chambers from Sam’s team kicked the ball. It went sailing through the air and landed right at his feet. Adrenaline coursed through his veins then, and his vision focused. He started dribbling the ball between his feet just as he’d been taught as he barreled toward the other team’s goal. Their defensive players were indeed mountains – how was it possible that they were the same age as the guys from his team? – but Sam had fought against his brother and his father. Ten year olds weren’t going to be a problem. He dodged them easily and when they figured out he could get around two or three of him and clustered around in larger numbers he easily passed the ball to Noah, who made an unimpeded run on the goal. Sam was able to focus so entirely on the game that the coach actually had to come and make him leave the field at halftime, by which time his team was ahead four to nothing. He’d scored two of those goals himself, one of them on a ball he’d actually stolen from the other team’s player. 

Mr. Meyer made him sit for part of the next half – apparently they were supposed to be learning about “sportsmanship” which was the opposite of “don’t leave a live enemy behind you.” Mikey Murphy, one of the defenders, got pulled as well but they both got put back in when the other team scored two more goals. The final score was six to two, Sam having scored one of the final two goals himself. He joined in the line where they shook hands with all of the players from the other team and said “good game,” not that any of the kids looked like they even knew what they were saying, and walked home covered in mud and grime. 

Dean was home when he arrived. “How did it go?” he asked, handing him a blunted wooden knife and gesturing. Knife training today. Okay. Well, at least he had his shin guards on. 

“We won.” 

He didn’t win against Dean of course. Dean was bigger, faster, stronger, better. Still, after he’d cleaned himself up from both activities and put himself to bed he couldn’t help but feel warm inside. He’d scored three goals on his own. He’d assisted on two of the other three. He might not be much good as a hunter – might not be able to contribute much to the family business – but he could do something here and now. 

By the time their dad had been gone for three weeks Sam had amassed a collection of six possible local cases. There was the bridge case – that was the biggest case as near as he could see, since it had killed or injured some six people since the attacks had started. There was an old derelict cabin off in the woods outside of town that had rumors of spirit activity – that one would need to wait for further investigation until Dad got home. He thought about stealing a car to go at least look at it, but the worlds smallest nine year old would probably draw attention if he were to go driving around town in a stolen car. There was a spot near the convent that grew all sorts of unusual herbs, apparently wild. That probably wouldn’t excite Dad unless it could be proven to be associated with witchcraft or something. There were two bed-n-breakfasts that had one room each that they couldn’t rent because of “weird goings-on” that sounded ghostly and one distillery built on an old church that was absolutely haunted. 

The next killing at the bridge happened after a game, on a Friday night. Two teenagers from one of the outlying towns had come to the bridge to “see the sights” and been attacked. The boy had gotten away, even though he had cuts all over his body. The girl had been found hanging from the bridge by her feet. She didn’t make it. Mikey Murphy’s dad was a policeman. “They’re saying it was suicide,” the defender whispered to Sam on the bench the next day. “I don’t know, though. Suicides don’t usually hang themselves by their feet, do they?”

“I’m not really an expert,” Sam lied. Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly a lie. He wasn’t a forensic expert or a psychologist or anything, but he had seen enough of his father’s research to know that he’d never seen a case of someone choosing to go out in quite that way. “I’d say that’s probably not the way most folks would want to go. Hey, Mikey. What did the guy say did it?” 

“I don’t know. Want me to get you a copy of the report?” 

Sam blinked. “You can do that?”

“Sure. I’m in the station all the time. Dad doesn’t even look at what I’m doing as long as I leave the guns alone.” 

“Could you maybe get me copies of the reports for all of the bridge deaths?”

“Sure thing, Winchester. Is this for one of those projects Ms. Hill has you doing?”

“Maybe.” 

The girl had been one of Samantha’s hairdressing clients, and so Sam’s boss was pretty broken up about the whole thing. The boy involved – he was a farmer boy from a little farther out – he was going to look like Frankenstein’s monster for the rest of his life and no joke, the older woman told him. He’d been slashed up but good. It was too bad that this was happening to so many good young people. “You’d think,” she said, “they just wouldn’t come there to do their dirty business anymore.” 

Sam blushed. Of course he knew about that sort of thing, he just didn’t want to think about it. And… in cars? How would the logistics work? In the Impala maybe (gross), but something like a Subaru or whatever was just… and then… He squirmed. “Do you think it’s a serial killer?” he asked to change the subject (both between them and in his brain.) 

“Well what else could it be? I hope they can get the state in on this. Those kids shouldn’t be doing what they’re doing but that doesn’t mean they should die like that.” She shook her head. “Let’s get to work.

Later Sam went over every detail that he possibly could relating to the bridge and the land it was on. Bardstown had a long religious history. The city was the locus of the first push of American Catholicism past Maryland – in 1785 that was considered the Western frontier. (French or Spanish Catholicism were not considered of course – the town was proud of its “home-grown” religious roots.) As near as Sam could tell though the early religious sites were all well plotted and marked and preserved. Even the haunted distillery was well commemorated for what it had been. He supposed there could have been something else – an excommunicate priest buried outside sacred ground or something. He’d have to keep digging.

He dreamed a couple of nights after that death. Well, that wasn’t unusual in and of itself. He dreamed a lot. In this dream, though, he was back in the steamy, sulfurous place again. He didn’t like it here. It smelled bad and the lighting was dim and it was hot and he was pretty sure he could hear people screaming somewhere. The last time he’d dreamed about this place had been in Lancaster County, when he’d had to meet one of the victims. This time he found himself standing near a pool of clear but stagnant, reeking water and he wasn’t alone, but his companion didn’t seem to be any of the victims of whatever was killing people by the bridge. They were all young and this guy wasn’t. He was older than Dad, but a little shorter. His features weren’t really remarkable but they didn’t look quite real either, like someone had sculpted them from memory and with materials that weren’t quite right for the medium. His eyes were his most memorable feature, being a deep yellow that fit right in with this place. “Hiya, Sammy,” he greeted.

The boy shivered, never mind the heat. He hadn’t known it was possible for a voice to carry things like slime on it but this guy’s did. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh, I know all about you, Sammy. Believe me, there’s not much about you that I don’t know. I made you, after all. Well, I helped.” He grinned and held out a hand. “You can call me Az.” 

Sam shook gingerly. “Sam.” 

“You’re a polite little thing. I’ll give you that much at least. No idea where you learned it. I’m glad to see it though. It’ll carry you far. People think we’re supposed to be these ravenous, slobbering things that just grab everything in sight but I think we get a little farther by being more insidious. You’re a little on the small side though. You should really be larger by now. I was worried when I saw you in that hospital. You need to eat better, Sammy. You’re going to need all of your strength for what’s coming.”

“I’m sorry, who are you again?” He looked around himself. “And where am I?”

“I told you. I’m Az, and I helped to make you. I’m still helping to make you, although your daddy doesn’t know that. And where you are… well, you’re in Hell, but I’m pretty sure you knew that already, didn’t you, Sport?”

“I’m not really here.” He frowned and looked around again. “I’m dreaming.”

“True. And you’ve been here before. You’ll be here again too. It’s not such a bad place.” 

“It’s Hell.” 

“Okay, so it is a bad place. It’s still your natural habitat. You’ll get used to it. That’s not why you’re here tonight though, Sammy. I see you’ve started hunting for yourself.”

“No. No, I’m not a hunter. I’m just a kid.” He shook his head and backed up.

“Is that so? Your brother started hunting before he was your age.” Az raised an eyebrow and the grin never left his face.

“Yeah, but Dean was bigger and smarter and faster and everything. Plus he wanted to.”

“Oh no, Sammy. Your brother might have been bigger but I’m pretty sure you’re faster than he ever was at your age. Remember, I’ve been watching. And he’s not smarter. I know what they’ve been telling you and I know why they’ve been saying it. I’d object because I’m concerned that they’re damaging my favorite but I’m pretty sure that it’s only going to help me out in the long run, so I guess I have to let them be, huh, Sammy?” He laughed and patted the boy on the back like they were sharing a joke. “Always remember what your end goal is and let your enemies move themselves along your path. Where was I? Anyway, you and I both know that neither of them is smarter than you. If it hadn’t been for you your father would still be digging in manure piles in Lancaster County, am I right?” He laughed again and Sam had to nod. “The difference is you’re not very interested in hunting, are you?”

“No sir,” Sam confessed, looking at the ground. “I like learning about things, but watching Dean get hurt is…” 

“He didn’t have a problem letting you get hurt though, did he?” 

It was true, but Sam shrugged. Even in a dream he couldn’t make himself say something bad about Dean out loud. “He’s a good son. He’d never go against Dad.”

“Keep that in mind and don’t forget that, Sammy. Don’t ever forget whose side he’s on. That’s why you’re looking into local cases, isn’t it? Big brother wants Daddy around, so you’re looking at local cases for when your dad is done with the case he’s on.”

“It would be nice to be able to finish out the school year here too,” he confessed. “I like this place.” 

Az grimaced. “There’s a few too many churches for my liking, but what the Hell. There are a few cases here. That garden does belong to a voudoun. He’s not doing anything that should be of interest to your father other than simply being a voudoun, but hey – that’s never stopped him before. That bridge thing, though… that’s a fun one.”

“Is it demons?” Sam asked, turning to face his companion. 

“What? No. We don’t really work like that. Plus, take a sniff.” Sam obeyed, trying not to think about the implications of the dream man’s use of the word “we.” After all, he was just a dream, right? “That’s the best sign we’ve been somewhere. There will usually be some sulfur left behind too. I know you haven’t been able to go to the site yet but when you go there won’t be any sulfur there.”

“My dad doesn’t believe in demons,” he felt compelled to point out.

“Do you?” 

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. If ghosts are real, and werewolves and rougarou and whatever other spirits, why not demons? Besides, Pastor Jim does.” 

“Good for you, Sammy. There’s a lot John Winchester doesn’t know. He might not believe in us now but he will eventually. Right, sonny?” He bumped shoulders conspiratorially.

“So do you know what is killing people over by the bridge?” 

“Sure.”

“Are you going to tell me?” 

“Where would be the fun in that? The whole point is for you to figure it out. I need you sharp, Sammy. I need that big beautiful brain of yours firing all cylinders, so I need you to learn to use them all. I will give you a clue, though, because it’s something your lead-brained father hasn’t actually even heard of.” 

“What’s that?”

“It’s all in your mind, Sammy.” He touched a finger to Sam’s lips. “You going to tell Daddy Dearest about our little chat tonight?” 

He shook his head. “I don’t tell him about my dreams. It’s just my subconscious processing things anyway.” 

Az broke out laughing. “You’re incredible, Sammy. Don’t forget – you’re my favorite.” 

Sam sat straight up in bed, panting. “Dude,” Dean complained from the other side of the bed. “Crack the window, would you? It reeks of rotten eggs in here.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds new details about the bridge killings. John returns home.

True to his word, Murphy got copies of all six police reports for Sam by the start of school on Monday morning. “How did your dad seriously not notice?” he asked. 

“He thought I was making photocopies for school,” the redhead shrugged. “I do this kind of thing all the time, it’s no biggie. What do you think is causing it?”

“I don’t know. You’ve lived here your whole life, haven’t you?” 

“Yeah, sure. And my dad has too, and his dad, and his. So what?”

“Did anything change right before the first death?” 

“The Waffle House burned down.”

“Uh, okay?”

“It was Joey Munroe. They caught him red-handed. Well, soot-lunged is more like. He didn’t even fight the charges, just said the place was a blight and could somebody please put up a place that served real food.”

Sam considered this. “He’s got a point. My dad and my brother pretty much live on Waffle House.”

“I guess. Doesn’t that mean you do too?” 

“Nah. I push the food around on my plate and hide it under my napkin. It works any time someone wants you to eat something that tastes like vomit. Hospitals, crappy buffet joints, you name it.”

“Huh.” Murphy stroked his chin and glanced away for a moment. “Think it would work at my aunt Effie’s holiday meals?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have aunts. Or holidays. But if there are people who are talking to each other and not to you I guarantee you no one will have the first clue that you’re skipping the gross stuff.”

“You’re a genius, Sam.” The bell rang and they ran in to class. 

Dean was impressed by his ability to acquire copies of the police reports. “Man, Dad would have had to go in there pretending to be FBI, or we would have had to break in or something,” he praised that night after dinner. “How’d you manage it?”

“One of the really good defenders on the team, his dad is a cop. Mikey spends a lot of time at his dad’s job so he made me the copies when the subject came up.” He shrugged. 

Dean’s expression shifted from impressed to guarded in .045 seconds. Sam could have timed it. “Oh, Jesus, Sammy, what did you tell him?”

“Nothing. He thinks I’m interested because of a school project. It’s not a big deal. I guess being on the soccer team had some benefits after all, huh, Dean?”

“It’s got you perked up and eating food for once, so I guess it does.” His big brother ruffled his hair affectionately. “So guess who I have a date with on Thursday night?” 

“Uh, Destiny? Amber? Leandra?” He started rattling off names he was pretty sure he’d heard his brother say at some recent point. They might have been here and they might not. God he hoped he wouldn’t turn into this when he was fourteen. “Raquel?” 

“Raquel –mmm. I should reach out to her. She’s got a rack on her –“

“Dean, you’re fourteen.”

“So? You’ll be a teenager someday Sam, and you’ll have an appreciation for the finer things in life. No, I’ve got a date with Vanessa Miller.”

Sam thought about it. He was pretty sure that the finer things in life meant something very different to him. “Can Vanessa Miller get you a first-run printing of ‘The Catcher in the Rye?’”

“No. But she can get me a ride to school, Sammy. She’s sixteen. She has her own car.”

“High school girls, Dean? Isn’t that kind of out of your league?” He looked at the police reports again. The bridge was new – well, new enough. All of the victims had been slashed to ribbons, basically. Two had been strung up before death but it had been blood loss that got them in the end. 

“I’m Dean Winchester. Nothing is out of my league, Sammy.” 

“Except a sustained tenor.”

Dean punched him on the arm. It would leave a bruise. “Your time is coming, pipsqueak. Just you wait.”

“Not at this rate,” he muttered, looking back to the files. The bridge itself was pretty enough but there was an awful lot of graffiti at its base. Was this something else that came with puberty? He knew that Bardstown was technically considered a city but really, it wasn’t big enough to have gangs or anything. Was tagging really that much of an issue here? 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His brother turned to look directly at him and Sam knew he’d said too much again. Dean’s blond eyebrows had knit themselves together and his fists were still clenched.

“Nothing, nothing. Forget it. I’m just a late bloomer.” He remembered back to his dream and his discussion with the man with the yellow eyes – who, of course, was nothing but a projection of his own brain. (“Don’t ever forget whose side he’s on.”) “So what are you going to do with this Vanessa Miller and her car?”

“You’re too young to know about things like that Sammy.” 

“I think everyone is too young to know about what you’re planning to do to her car, Dean. I’m pretty sure sex with motor vehicles is still illegal in the state of Kentucky but hang on brave soldier. Your time will come.” 

He got a matching bruise on the other arm for his trouble. “See if I ever fix your car someday.” 

“Like I’ll ever have a car of my own. I’ll just steal yours.”

“You make a habit of stealing cars like that and you’re going to wind up in prison.” 

“Least I’ll be in the same place for more than a few weeks.” He looked at the coroners’ reports again. “This is weird. It looks like every cut and every slash was made by a different weapon.” 

“Huh. Is that weird?”

“Well, serial killers don’t usually carry more than one or two weapons around with them. They can’t. They’re human. And a ghost would usually use the instrument of its own death or whatever is lying around, right?”

“When did you become an expert on what ghosts would or wouldn’t use, Sammy?”

“I’m not stupid, Dean. I hear things. I read Dad’s stupid Journal. I can see things for myself, you know. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Well, you’re not wrong, but I don’t know about this stuff. Dad does.”

“Dean, you’ve been hunting with Dad since before you were my age and he’s actually let you meet some other hunters. You’ve heard things, you’ve read things, you’ve learned things. I know that because you’re smart, okay? You’re smart and for some reason you actually want to be doing this so you actually pay attention. Now – ghosts use what’s lying around or the instrument of their own death, right?”

He gave a shy little smile. “Well, yeah, Sammy. They do. Sometimes they’ll just choke you though.” 

“That counts as lying around. So… it might not be a ghost. But it’s not a human, or at least not one human. And more than one human wouldn’t have the killings spread out over so much time. Even two people using this many weapons on two people is really straining credulity. We have an axe, a scythe, fifteen different kinds of slashing knives and six stabbing knives, an ancient obsidian sacrificial knife, a scalpel, a cleaver…”

“Jesus, Sammy, what nine-year-old knows so much about serial killers?” 

“It hasn’t been that long since you were my age, Dean. I’m pretty sure books about serial killers were written for boys my age. We don’t have hormones to distract us, we need something to think about. Besides, I’ll be ten in three weeks.”

“Crap – you’re right. Has Dad really been gone for five weeks?” He sighed. “We’re going to have to pony up the rent.” 

“Yeah, well, we’ve both been working so we should be able to scrape it together, right?” He looked up at Dean.

“Yeah. Yeah, I don’t think it’ll be a problem. Might be cutting it a little close but I think we’ll be okay, what with what you’ve been making. Hopefully Dad won’t have any major purchases he needs to make.” He sighed. “I should skip that date with Vanessa.” 

“No, Dean. The money I’m making just goes into the emergency fund anyway. Just take that and put it back when Dad gets home and starts making money again, okay? It’s fine. You deserve it, and I’m looking forward to a quiet night.” He gave his brother a grin. 

“Thanks, Sammy. I’ll make it up to you.” 

The case continued to baffle Sam, but in a way he kind of liked it. It was like a really challenging math problem. The fact that the case existed meant that there had to be an answer. He’d had a dream about it, too. Dreams were just the brain’s way of processing information that it didn’t even consciously know it had received – Pastor Jim had told him that once, when he’d told him about the weird dreams that had pestered him his entire life. So that strongly suggested that he was probably capable of figuring this out. It was a puzzle and he had the pieces, he just had to put them together. One thing that he did know – it was definitely something supernatural. The two victims that had survived had reported growling and red eyes before being slashed and stabbed.

Soccer provided a welcome distraction, something to clear his head from the case when he got to thinking too hard about it. His team was doing very well - only one loss all season so far, and Sam knew that he’d been a big part of helping that to happen. No one had to tell him that, either. He could see the ball go into the goal after feeling it leave his foot – cause, effect. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. If he screwed up in practice he could just get up and try again. There would be laughter, and he could even join in. 

For that matter, the team laughed. The team joked. They had dumb chants and cheers that they did together and then laughed about afterwards. No one ever told Sam that he wasn’t trying or that he wasn’t enough – quite the opposite.

In the two weeks before Dad came home the brothers managed to scrape together more rent money, Dean got two more dates with Vanessa Miller and Sam learned more about the bridge cases. The new information didn’t come from his police department source, nor did it come from any of his other playground pals. It came from his boss, Samantha. From her comments about the victims getting up to “dirty business” over by the bridge Sam had guessed the lady had a bit of a religious bent but it was confirmed on the Wednesday before Dad came home. She always looked tired – working three jobs will do that to a person, especially a person who had lived the kind of life Samantha had – but today she looked exceptionally exhausted. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he got into the passenger seat of her car.

“I’m just sad today, Sam,” she told him. 

“Why? It’s spring, it’s almost Easter, your hairdressing business is picking up.” 

She gave him a little smile. Her hairdressing business was picking up at that; Sam might have overheard that a couple of his soccer buddies’ moms were unhappy with their stylists and passed along a card or two. Maybe. “It’s our pastor. A bunch of us wanted to put up a plaque in honor of all those poor kids who died but he wasn’t having any of it, even though four of the victims went to our church and three of them died.”

“I thought some of the kids were from out of town,” the boy frowned. 

“Oh, honey. Our church is huge. It draws people in from miles around, especially farmers. I know our pastor’s a good man, but it seems a little… harsh, I guess.”

“Why won’t he allow the plaque?”

“Well, they died in a state of sin, didn’t they? Fornicating up by that bridge like they were. And I know they shouldn’t have been doing it but they’re young, they’re kids. They were, anyway. It doesn’t seem like a very Christian thing to do to the families, does it? Pretending that the kids were never there in the first place?” She shook her head. “I’m sure I don’t know.” 

That was Wednesday. On Saturday night, Dad came home. He didn’t call ahead, he didn’t give any warning at all. Fortunately the Impala had a distinctive engine noise so both boys were able to put anything away that oughtn’t to be out (skin magazines and a beer bottle in Dean’s case – Sam didn’t even want to know how he’d managed to keep himself in beer over seven weeks of Dad’s absence – and books and case files in Sam’s) and present themselves for inspection when Dad walked in.

Sam was pretty sure normal fathers, after not seeing their sons for seven weeks, would probably want to do more than give a cursory inspection. They might want to… He thought about things he’d seen on television. Shake hands, maybe? Hug? He tried to imagine John Winchester hugging and had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The hunter looked the boys over and stalked through the apartment while they remained at attention, staring straight ahead and silent. Finally he returned. “The apartment seems to be in one piece,” he observed, returning to the common room. “You’re dismissed. Sam, fetch me something to eat. And a beer. Dean, report.” 

Sam obeyed, putting two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches together and opening a beer while Dean began detailing their domestic dramas with as little flair or frippery as he could muster. He delivered his goods and backed away, knowing he wasn’t wanted for the discussion but knowing he wasn’t allowed to retreat to his room until so told either. Dean talked about school and about his job, and about Sam’s school and about Sam’s job. John had objected to that – “Sam shouldn’t be leaving the house without one of us, Dean, and you know it!” – but Dean defended the decision. “Sir, you told us you were likely to be gone for two weeks at the most. You were gone for seven. If Sammy wasn’t bringing in forty bucks a week we’d be living under a bridge right now. I know it’s hardly the ideal situation but we checked her out, she seems pretty legit. He’s helping the family, sir, which is all he’s wanted to do.” Sam didn’t move, didn’t even dare breathe. Dean was actually defending him – to Dad, no less! He almost couldn’t believe his ears. He didn’t want to give Dad anything to grab onto, anything he could use to justify an outburst. “He’s kept his grades up, kept up with the soccer team, kept up with his training and kept the apartment spotless besides. And he didn’t bitch about it once in seven weeks.”

John grunted. “Been keeping up with the Latin too?” 

“I’m not in a position to judge, but he’s been reading books in Latin and writing things down so I’m guessing yes, sir.” 

The man gave another noncommittal grunt. It was like he was annoyed that he didn’t have anything to be annoyed with. Sam would never understand him. “Looks like you grew a bit, Sam.” 

“Maybe, sir.”

“You’re dismissed, Sam.”

He retreated to the bedroom he shared with Dean. His father had said exactly ten words to him. He’d said all of two back. In seven weeks that had been the totality of their interaction.

Why he’d thought anything would be at all different between them after close to two months he had no idea. They were up at six the next morning for training even though Dad had come home late the previous night and apparently Dad was feeling stiff from a long drive because he decided that an eight-mile run was in everyone’s best interests. Sam managed the run although he certainly couldn’t manage an adult’s pace, not at his size. After the run came strength training, and then sparring, and then knife fighting because he just couldn’t live without seeing how much his boys had slacked off in his absence. Then they had to do climbing and escape practice besides. Sam actually kind of liked escape practice although he’d never admit to that, not even under torture. It was the one thing he was better at than Dean and no one could pretend otherwise. Today Dad actually believed that he wasn’t even trying to get out of his cuffs, he managed to stay so still when he was working. He believed it so much he got in Sam’s face. “You lazy, self-absorbed piece of –“ That was when Sam punched him. It felt good, even though he dodged. 

Sam went to work as usual. If Samantha noticed the bruises on his wrists she didn’t say anything. When he got home he turned in all but five dollars of his earnings as he used to do back in Pennsylvania and sneaked the last five into the emergency fund. 

At dinner that night their father frowned. “It’s probably time for me to start looking for jobs,” he told them. Sam was too used to this sort of thing to think that meant he was going to pick up work at one of the distilleries. “You boys have been here almost two months. There’s no time to let the grass grow under our feet. People are dying.” 

Sam looked down. He wouldn’t say anything. Words coming out of his mouth were the best way to ensure his father did the exact opposite of what he wanted. Instead, he kicked his brother under the table. “Uh, well, sir, if it’s a job you’re looking for I’m pretty sure there’s at least one here.” 

A dark eyebrow rose to the ceiling. “Really? Why haven’t other hunters heard about it?” 

“Well, it’s been on kind of a small scale so far, sir,” Dean explained. “It’s attacked six people, all young couples. Four of them have died and two survived, but badly disfigured. They were all necking over by the scenic bridge.”

“Could be a garden variety serial killer.”

“Probably not, sir. I’m no expert, but the coroners’ reports all say that every injury was made with a different type of weapon. Serial killers don’t have the luxury of carrying so much stuff to a work site and the victims were killed where they were found. The ones who lived also saw and felt things that weren’t natural, sir.” He grinned. “It seems weird, but weird is kind of our stock in trade, right sir?”

Their father grinned at his eldest. “That’s right, son. Good work. Nice thinking. It’s probably worth taking a look at, at least. I don’t suppose that you actually have the police reports.”

“Sure thing, sir. I’ll get them for you after dinner.” 

Sam tried not to be audible when he breathed a sigh of relief. Dad had taken the bait. They would stay local for a little while at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: I'm aware that Dean's sexual behavior in this series contradicts evidence presented in s9e7 "Bad Boys." I'm basing my presentation on John's commentary in his Journal. Sorry - this and "Trotter Head" were written before that episode aired, so I've had only the Journal to guide me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The family that investigates crime scenes together stays together. Or else. Also, Sam and John have a confrontation about a soccer game on Sam's tenth birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: graphic depiction of child abuse. I'd submit that there are actually two children being abused here but hey.

As it turned out the bridge case intrigued Dad pretty quickly. While his sons were at school on Monday he went out to the site and took Polaroids of the bridge, the graffiti, the little memorials for all of the victims. Even the tourist – who, as it turns out, had met up with an adventurous farm girl – got a little memorial because tragedy likes commemoration. Sam saw the pictures after he got home from soccer practice on Monday, although he was careful to keep his father from noticing his interest. He studied them carefully when his father went out to the bar that night, making careful notes in his own secret notebook.

Another killing turned the heat of the case up on Tuesday. John woke both boys up to go see the crime scene. Sam could have lived without that. After all, it wasn’t like he had been running and training and at school and then at practice and then more training today. Still, there was no way his father was going to let him stay home right now, not when there was a case in town. Once he was a little more awake he was willing enough to go see it anyway. He was actually interested in the bridge, after all. He’d only spent close to two months researching it. Apparently the town or the county or someone had gotten some kind of a grant to build it and make it pretty, because a certain amount of effort had gone into making the bridge nice to look at as well as stable. He assumed it was stable anyway, since cars drove over it and everything. There was a nice big gravel space where cars could park and look at a plaque that talked about the site’s importance during some historical skirmish, and maybe have a picnic lunch. Knowing what Sam knew there was no way he was sitting at that table or letting food anywhere near it. 

The family stayed away from the scene until the cops left, only approaching once they wouldn’t be in any danger. Sam stayed still once they were inside the crime scene tape. It was the first time he’d been inside the perimeter of a fresh crime scene – one he and his family hadn’t been part of, anyway. There was an awful lot of blood, blood everywhere. Both halves of the couple had apparently been killed. There were no footprints other than the cops’. There were no weapons left at the scene either. There was nothing but blood. The boy closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Az had told him that if demons were involved he’d smell sulfur. There was none of that here, just the metallic tang of blood and maybe the creek. “Blood too much for you, boy?” his father demanded, grabbing his arm. “You’re going to have to get over it or you’re in for a rough time. Can’t be getting squicked out by blood in this life, boy.” 

“I’ve seen plenty of blood already,” he snapped, jerking his arm away, “or have you already forgotten that? I’m trying to figure out how the crime scene smells. Some things leave behind scent evidence that is different from what other things leave behind. I found it in Pastor Jim’s library.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He must have found it somewhere, right? Or else the dream man wouldn’t have said anything about it. 

The hunter gave him a long measuring look. “Watch your tone with me. I don’t brook insubordination.” He paused. “Well?”

“Well what?” At the little growl he added , “Sir?” even though he didn’t mean it. 

“Well what do you smell?”

“Nothing special. I smell blood and the creek. That’s it.”

“So your little look-at-me routine was a waste of time or a plea for attention.”

“No, sir. It eliminated anything demonic or demonic spirits. They leave behind a sulfuric scent. We probably wouldn’t see sulfur in the dark but we’d smell it.” 

“Learned all that in a book, did you, boy?” his father growled.

“Yes, sir. Where else would I learn it?”

Dean inserted himself between the pair. “Okay. We know it’s not a demon, which is good, but two young people did die here so let’s head home and see what we can come up with, okay?” John led the way back to the car without another word. Dean hung back with Sam and elbowed him in the side, hard. “Why’d you have to mouth off like that? He’s going to make you pay, and you know what? You’re going to deserve it.” 

“I’m a nine year old boy, not a concussed starfish. Like I’m going to pass out from a little blood. Why am I not allowed to actually have something to offer, huh? I’m supposed to just stand in the corner and drool until I’m told to change corners and drool some more?” He’d stopped moving and wasn’t even being quiet.

“If that’s what it takes, Sammy.” Dean shook his head. “Dad’s been doing this for nine and a half years, you know. He knows what he’s doing. You have to trust that he knows what he’s doing, you have to have faith and follow your orders. You know that.” 

“No. You know that. How can he give orders if he doesn’t have all of the information, huh? And if he won’t accept information from me because he just plain hates me then he’s being stupid and making stupid decisions that are going to get you killed, and I’m not okay with that.” He felt warm all of a sudden, like a flush of anger. 

“Sammy, it’s Dad, okay? It’s what we have to do because it’s Dad. Let’s just get in the car and go.” Dean turned his back on Sam and stalked off along their father’s path. Sam resisted the urge to punch something and followed.

At home Dean went back to bed. So did Dad. As punishment for his “insubordination” Sam was required to clean all of the guns. That was okay. He was angry enough that he didn’t think he’d have managed to get back to sleep anyway. 

The next day was Wednesday and Sam had work, which was just as well. Dad was still angry about Sam’s decision to stand up to him and Sam was still angry about being treated like he wasn’t supposed to have two brain cells to rub together, so having the two of them in a room together wasn’t going to end well. He turned in his money and retreated to his room without waiting for dismissal, not caring that he was missing dinner.

Thursday came along and brought with it rain. Sam groaned. Rain meant that day’s game would be cancelled. He wouldn’t have minded playing in the mud but league rules prohibited such shenanigans. Apparently they had concerns about safety, torn ligaments and such. They should have taken a page from the John Winchester book of parenting, he thought meanly as he sulked his way through the day. He wasn’t the only one, fortunately. It was easy to pick out the soccer team on rainy days. 

The game was to be made up on Saturday morning. He warned Coach Meyer that the chances that he’d actually be allowed to participate were slim to none. His mentor and ally winced. “I don’t know, Sam. It’s a big game – the other team is undefeated and it would be really nice to be able to hand them their first defeat. I’m not sure we can do it without you.” 

“I know, sir, but my dad is pretty dead set against my doing anything on Saturday mornings. I’m pretty sure he’s going to say no.” And punish me for even thinking about it, he added silently.

“Is he really so rigid that his plans can’t be moved to the afternoon, Sam?” 

“Pretty much. I mean, I’ll try but I can’t make any promises.”

“Isn’t it your birthday Saturday? Can’t you try that angle?”

“Trust me. My dad does not want to be reminded about my birthday.” 

“Oh, Sam. I’m a father myself and even though sometimes my kids get on my nerves there are no days as special to me as the days they entered the world.” 

That’s probably because your kids aren’t unclean monsters who break everything they touch, he thought but didn’t say. “I’ll try, sir.” 

And he did try at dinner that night. “So I noticed that you didn’t have soccer today Sam,” his father observed mildly.

“No sir. The game was rained out. They’re afraid that we’re going to tear our ligaments or something.”

His father and brother exchanged looks, surprised to hear so many words come out of his mouth directed at their father. “Christo,” the older male said, while Dean tried to look encouraging. 

“So what happens when the game gets rained out?” the younger male wanted to know, taking a fork full of pasta. 

“The game has to be made up. It’s already been rescheduled.” It was funny – he already knew what the answer would be, but his limbs felt heavy and numb and his heart seemed to beat six times as fast in his chest now that the moment was here.

“Oh?” His father’s voice was deceptively mild. “When for?”

“Saturday morning.”

“Too bad you won’t be making it.” Dad took another bite of pasta. “Dean, could you pass the crushed red pepper?”

“It’s a really important game. The other team is the only undefeated team in the league and we’re the only ones with a chance of beating them. I’m the best attacker we’ve got.”

“Boy, for a kid everyone keeps telling me is so damn smart you really just don’t get it, do you?” Dad said, putting his fork down and focusing all of his attention on his son. “You. Will. Not. Play. In. That. Game. We go shooting on Saturday mornings. Soccer is a game, Sam. Bow hunting is real life. You need to know this stuff and frankly your archery skills need a lot of improvement. You think soccer is going to help you against this vengeful spirit down by the bridge?”

“Bow hunting isn’t exactly going to be a big help there either,” he retorted before he could stop himself. “They’re not corporeal.”

“Excuse me? I know you didn’t just back talk me again. You are one arrogant little piece of crap, you know that? You really think that team needs you? They did just fine before you waltzed into their lives and they’d do just fine if you dropped into the pit of Hell tomorrow. You’re going bow hunting so you can learn to maybe not be so much of a liability to your brother and me, not because anyone needs you around, got it? And you’re going bow hunting with me and your brother on Saturday goddamn morning.” Dean winced. 

“Look, it’s not like anything is actually in season. I can shoot at targets just as easily in the afternoon as I can in the early morning and I don’t see why you can’t make one exception on my goddamn birthday.”

“You think anyone cares about your birthday, princess? Demons don’t care that it’s your birthday. Ghosts don’t care that it’s your goddamn birthday. Vampires don’t care that it’s your goddamn birthday, werewolves don’t care that it’s your goddamn birthday and I sure as hell don’t. Your brother has work in the afternoon because he’s a good son and doesn’t try to get out of shooting practice by scheduling things that don’t fucking matter on Saturday mornings.” 

“Well why can’t you take him shooting in the morning and then take me in the afternoon?” It was a suggestion, not a great one. It wasn’t as though Sam wanted any one-on-one time with the man who had inadvertently sired him. “That way you’re not distracted from working with the good one by having to pay attention to a piece of crap like me.” Dean cringed.

“Do you seriously think that I have nothing better to do with my time than hold your hand, princess? You’re going target shooting with me and Dean, and you’re not playing soccer and that’s all there is to it. I’m your father, I’ve given you a goddamn order and you’re going to obey it.”

Sam sneered and left the table. He heard his father’s chair move, but his brother intervened. “Let him go, Dad. The team has been good for him, let him sulk it off. I’m sure he’ll be fine in the morning.”

“The little shit needs to remember his place in this family,” Dad snarled.

In the questionable privacy of his room Sam struggled to calm himself down. He’d flown off the handle and he hadn’t wanted to. He’d tried to be calm and rational, but Dad had made it impossible. Well, what had he really expected? It wasn’t like he didn’t know the guy. He’d have done better to beg and plead for bow hunting and make it seem like the most important thing in the world, just so Dad would cancel it. Hadn’t Az said something about that in his dream, about knowing the end goal and letting your enemies carry you there?

It probably wasn’t right for him to think his father was an enemy. 

He focused on the case. Dad thought it was a vengeful spirit, and maybe he was right. He had been doing this for a while, after all. At the same time, something didn’t quite work. A vengeful spirit usually had a focus. They focused on a specific person, and this one was focusing on multiple people. They focused on specific places, but there was nothing about this specific site that tied into the victimology. The victims were all young lovers or at least young lusters, and while the site had been tied into a settlement-era skirmish there was nothing romantic or sexual about it. Dad, according to Dean, hadn’t really cared about that distinction. “Sometimes spirits get hung up on the things they can’t do anymore,” he’d explained. “When a ghost goes vengeful they get a lot more powerful but they also go kind of crazy. It’s sad, really. Killing them does them a favor.” 

Az had suggested that the monster was something John Winchester hadn’t seen before. Of course Az wasn’t real, but he was a figment of Sam’s imagination given a very strange form because that was how dreams worked. So what that meant was that the monster was something that hadn’t yet made it into John’s journal and Sam needed to think outside the narrow confines of what he’d seen there. After all, there had to be more in the world than what had been experienced by one obsessed man in nine years. The clue Az had dropped had been interesting. “It’s all in your mind,” the creepy yellow-eyed man had told him. It was especially interesting considering the fact that Az himself didn’t exist outside of Sam’s mind, a kind of overgrown imaginary friend that the boy never wanted to see again. What if there was some kind of monster that could be produced just by believing in it – kind of like Peter Pan or Tinkerbell or whatever?

Dean eventually came in, when Sam was almost asleep. “You shouldn’t antagonize him, Sammy,” he counseled. “You know it just gets him all worked up.”

“I just have to look at him to get him worked up, Dean,” he pointed out. “You’d both be better off if I wasn’t even here. He adores you.” 

“He’d adore you too if you’d just let him. He was happy when you actually spoke to him.” 

“He thought I was possessed.”

“Because you never speak to him unless you have to. Sammy, it’s a two way street. He doesn’t trust you because he doesn’t really know you, you know?” He changed into his pajamas. 

“Every time I try to let him know me he gets pissed off, Dean. There is nothing here that he wants.” He outlined his ideas about the monster. “I’m not sure what it could be. I was thinking about calling Pastor Jim if I can get a few minutes to myself. He doesn’t mind questions.” 

“Dad likes questions, Sammy.”

“Dad likes questions from you, Dean. And this one is kind of weird to come from you. It’s kind of weird to come from anyone.” He sighed. “Do you think Dad might send me to live with Pastor Jim, maybe?”

“Uh, no way, dude. Dad likes Pastor Jim just fine, but I don’t think he wants to get rid of you. He’s trying to do right by you, Sammy. He wants you to be able to defend yourself.” 

“What’s the point? At this point I’d rather just let the monsters eat me.”

Dean grabbed him and hauled him out of bed. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that! Not even joking. We fight. We always fight, got it? You don’t get to give up. You don’t get to get out and you don’t get to give in. Dad and I have done too much, given too much, for you to just roll over and die. You’re going to learn to fight, and you’re going to fight hard even if you hate every second of it.” 

“Why? So I can get up and fight again tomorrow?”

“Yes. For Mom.” 

He shrugged out of Dean’s grip. “Goodnight, Dean.”

They had a game on Friday. The team won. On his way home he stopped at a convenience store and bought a calling card with some of his stashed earnings, then he called Pastor Jim from a pay phone. “Hi, Sammy!” the priest greeted, genuinely sounding happy to hear from him. “I thought your birthday was tomorrow!”

“It is, sir. I just had a question for you, and I kind of wanted to keep it quiet. You know, like, not tell Dad that I was asking.” He glanced around. Who knew whether or not John had decided to follow him. 

“Well, I’m not a big fan of keeping secrets from your dad, but I’ll keep it under wraps if I don’t think it endangers you or your family, son. I know you like to think about things before you share them.” He could hear the smile in his mentor’s voice. 

“Is there any kind of monster that exists just by thinking about it? Like, just by believing hard enough?” 

The pastor had a drink of some kind – probably coffee, if Sam knew him at all. “Huh. Seems to me that I’ve heard of something like that. Let me do a little poking around and get back to you.” 

“Okay. Uh, can I call you back tomorrow morning? I’m uh, probably going to be grounded tomorrow afternoon if not actually killed so I probably won’t be able to come to the phone.”

“Sure, Sam. You know I’m up early anyway.”

That night Sam went to bed at the normal time. Before he went to bed, though, he packed his school bag with a clean uniform and his cleats. The next day he made sure he got up before dawn, before the other members of his family even stirred. He moved so quietly that even Dean didn’t wake up. When he climbed out the window onto the fire escape he didn’t make a sound or disturb the salt line, and then he was gone. 

Of course, now he had a few hours to kill and all of his usual haunts were right out. He made his way toward the old proto-basilica. Both father and brother were pretty irreligious and didn’t really get his interest in religion, so they weren’t really likely to look for him there. Of course if they did they probably didn’t even know about the crypts.

As it turned out there was, in fact, a ghost in the crypt. It left Sam alone, because it was more interested in its prayers or whatever it was doing. Maybe it was just residual energy after all. Sam left it alone because he was not a hunter damn it, he was a normal kid trying to get to a normal soccer game. 

At eight o’clock he left and found a pay phone, using the calling card to reach Pastor Jim. “Sammy, happy birthday!” his friend greeted him. “Your father is worried sick!” 

“I’m sure he’s pretty pissed.”

“He asked me if I’d heard from you. I told him you asked me a lore question but that was about it. Is something going on, Sam?”

“Nothing I’m asking you to get in the middle of, sir. I’m going against orders and he’s not going to like it, but that’s… that’s on me.” He laughed a little. “I’m the one going AWOL. I’m just wondering if you found anything about that monster I asked you about.” 

“I did. There’s a creature called a tulpa, it kind of loosely translates as thoughtform. They’re usually created by mass visualization – like urban legends. There’s a variant that can be deliberately created and directed, though. You’re not getting into anything you shouldn’t, are you, son?”

“No, sir. I think it’s something related to the case Dad’s working on. You might get a call from Dad asking the same information in the next week or so. “

“Sam, be careful. With the case and with your father.” 

“Yes, sir. Thanks, Pastor Jim.”

The game started at nine. Sam kept himself hidden until exactly nine, when he jogged up to the playing field. He could see his father and his brother at the field with the car and he knew he was taking a real chance here, but he had to risk it. He needed his teammates to know that he’d at least tried to be there for them. Besides, it wasn’t like either of them had ever been to a game before. He might be able to sneak in with the sea of green shirts and get some playing time in. He actually scored two goals before the first time out. 

As soon as the whistle blew the coach pulled him out. “Winchester,” he said, flanked by Dad and Dean. Dad’s face was a thundercloud. Dean’s was, if possible, worse, and he had a black eye and split lip to show for it. “Your father tells me you didn’t have permission to be here today. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Then why did you come?”

“I didn’t want to let the team down, sir.”

Coach Meyer sighed. “Well, unfortunately, I can’t let you stay. I have to send you with your father. It’s the law, you understand?” The teacher met his eyes. It was hard to read what Sam found there – disappointment, but something else. Concern, maybe? “I want to see you in my office on Monday morning. We’re going to talk about this.”

“Yes, sir.” 

John grabbed his arm and pulled – hard. “Get in the car, boy,” he hissed in his ear. Sam stumbled but let himself be forced along. He could feel the eyes of the entire team on his back as he half-walked, half slid away. 

“I’m going to make you wish you were never born,” Dean told him as soon as the doors were closed. 

“It’s a little late,” Sam retorted. He didn’t bother with the seatbelt.

“That’s a little dramatic for bow hunting,” the elder Winchester smirked, putting the car into drive. “And if that’s how you feel now wait until you see what life will be like after this little stunt. You’ve shown us that you can’t be trusted even in your bed. And of course, I can’t trust Dean to watch you, since he’s the one you snuck out on. I had to discipline him because you snuck out on his watch to play a stupid goddamn game. Because you were too goddamn selfish to follow your orders.”

“Or because you were too goddamn selfish to bend yours to accommodate a change in plans,” he shot back from his position. What the hell, he was going to catch a shit storm anyway. “It’s fine to not do shooting practice when you abandon your kids for two months to go chasing after rainbows or whatever, but God forbid that it has to be moved to accommodate someone else when you are in town, right?”

“Sammy, just shut up. No one wants to hear any of your lip. Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused today? How much running around we did having to look for your sorry ass?” Dean snapped. Sam could see his eyes in the rearview mirror. He looked terrified, not angry. His pupils were the size of some purely theoretical particles.

The remainder of the drive to the makeshift shooting range was done in silence. En route Sam came to a decision. It was probably a bad decision, or at least an immature decision, but he was ten. He was ten and he was going to be punished pretty severely anyway, so he was going to prove a point to his family. 

When they stopped the car he refused to get out. He just sat in the back seat and went limp. “I have had it up to here with your attitude lately,” John spat, reaching in and pulling on his arm. 

“I’d be careful with that, Dad.” Sam kept his tone even and cold, even though he wasnted to shout with pain and anger and –yes – hate. “The whole team saw you dragging me out of there by my arm, and they saw Dean’s face. You wouldn’t want to dislocate something, would you?”

John’s face went red and he turned to Dean and gestured. Dean reached into the car, picked Sam up and bodily dropped him onto the ground. Then his brother grabbed his shirt in his fist and pulled him along behind them as they made their way to where their father had set up the shooting range. Once there, John described the targets and the scenario he wanted them to hit. Dean demonstrated his perfection, as usual. Sam sat down on a rock. He could feel bruises already on his arms and he knew it was only going to get worse. Oh well. 

Dean held out the bow. “Your turn, Sammy,” his brother told him.

“No,” Sam replied. 

“We’re here to shoot archery, not sit on a rock,” his father told him, coming over and kicking him. It wasn’t a terribly hard kick, and it was in the meaty part of his backside, but it got his point across. “Take the damn bow.”

“No.”

“I gave you an order, you spoiled brat!”

“And I said no.” 

His father backhanded him across the face, knocking him off the rock and splitting his lip. He took the bow from Dean and held it out to Sam, who was sprawled out on the ground. “Take the goddamn bow and get up.” 

Sam pushed himself up on his elbows. “I don’t think you heard me. No.” 

The veins stood out in his father’s forehead as he reached out and pulled Sam up by his shirt with one hand. Sam allowed the action. His father forced the bow into his hand with the other hand. “You will shoot the bow!” he bellowed, nose no farther than an inch from his son’s.

“I don’t think you get how this works,” he replied calmly. “You can stop me from playing soccer. You can take that away from me if you want to. It’s a total dick move but you can, you have that right. You can physically put me in the car. You can physically move me out of the car and you can drag me out of the car. You can drag me along the trail. You can toss me around to your heart’s content if that’s what makes you feel better about yourself. You can beat me black and blue, you can beat me bloody. But no matter how angry you get, no matter how much you punish me, no matter what you do, you cannot force me to shoot that bow.” 

John went even redder while Sam spoke, if that was possible, and then he went white. Before Sam was finished he’d removed his belt. “Dean!” he barked, taking the bow back and tugging Sam’s shirt off. “Get your ass over here. He’s your responsibility. You spoiled him, you discipline him. Ten lashes. Now, and don’t even think about holding back.” He spun Sam around and wedged his shoulder into a tree as a kind of brace. Sam had to bite his lip to keep from crying out as the blows fell, but he grinned in spite of the pain. He’d made his point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to state that this was written before 9.07 "Bad Boys" aired.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winchesters encounter the tulpa.

Back at the apartment Sam was sent to his room, not so much as a punishment but because his father “couldn’t stand to look at him.” For the remainder of their time in Bardstown he was to remain in his room when not at work, practice, training or school. Sam heroically refrained from smirking. Had Dad not figured out that this was actually a win? His actual punishment was to translate a Latin ground consecration into English and back into Latin – a hundred times, which needed to be done before he was permitted to work on any homework or do anything else at all. The passage was a long one, and Sam had terrible blisters on his right hand before he was through. Food was not permitted although by six in the evening Dean brought him some water. His brother wouldn’t look at him or help him clean his back up though.

Before bedtime his brother came back into the bedroom and drove nails into the window frames. They could now be opened about two inches; wide enough to let in a little air, not wide enough to be used for escape. Technically this was illegal as it impeded egress in case of fire but Sam didn’t think pointing this out was the best course of action. He also didn’t think his dad would much care about getting Sam out in case of fire. 

Sam was “allowed” to come on the training run the next day although neither of his family members actually addressed him. He got to skip sparring on the grounds that even running opened up his bloody back, though, and he needed to get that under control before work. Now – and only now – was he allowed to clean himself up at all, taking a quick shower (Dean timed him) and getting bandages put on by his brother. “A couple of these are looking infected already,” the blond told him, smearing some ointment on them before applying the bandages.

“What do you expect? You both left me to rot with them like that all day.” 

Dean cuffed him. “What did you expect, huh? Taking off like that, making us worry, disobeying orders – I swear, Sammy. You keep complaining that Dad hates you but it’s like you’re trying to make him hate you. He was looking forward to celebrating your birthday, too.”

“That’s crap, Dean,” he sighed. “Dad hasn’t celebrated my birthday in… like, ever. He wishes I’d never been born.”

“He wishes you’d been born better,” his brother shot back. “You never talk to him, you never tell him anything, you never show an interest in anything. No wonder he thinks you’re a freak.”

“I showed an interest in something this time.”

“Something stupid. Grow up, Sammy. We’re not here to play soccer. We’re here to fight evil. I’m going to tell him to pull you off the team. It’s giving you ideas, making you think you fit in someplace other than here.”

“I don’t fit in here either, Dean. That’s the problem.”

“Don’t say shit like that, Sammy. Just try harder. It would help a lot if you didn’t do stupid shit like antagonize Dad, disobey orders and run off. He’s in charge here, not you. If he gives us an order we do it. It’s that simple. If he tells you to shoot the bow you shoot the bow. You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.” 

“But he can’t make me do it. And I’m not going to do it.” 

“You’re a selfish asshole, Sammy.” Dean left the room. 

Sam got dressed and went to go clean tasting rooms with Samantha. His boss noticed his split lip and the tentative way he leaned against the seat. She folded her lips together as the car pulled out of the parking lot, but as they pulled into their first client of the day she turned to her young charge. “If I remember correctly, you all have a teacher training day or some such thing on Wednesday, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “School’s out.” 

“My church’s asked me to come do a deep cleaning of the offices and I could use a hand. I’ll give you an extra twenty-five dollars on top of what we’d usually get for doing the tasting rooms, what do you say?”

That would be fifty dollars for the whole day! “If you’re sure, ma’am.”

“Of course I’m sure. And I suspect that you wouldn’t mind getting away from the house for the day.” She glanced at his lip and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not so bad –“

“I’ve had worse, kid. That doesn’t mean you should. But maybe you’re not ready to deal with it yet.” She shrugged. “I’m here for you. You know where you can find me. I ain’t afraid of your daddy. I saw what he did to your big brother too.” 

“That was my fault, ma’am.”

“Did you bang up you brother’s face like that?” He shook his head. “Then it wasn’t your fault. Your daddy makes his own choices. C’mon. Let’s get to scrubbing.”

Sam dutifully submitted a report of his intentions for the day off on Wednesday, leaving a note on the dining table as he was expected to observe silence as part of his punishment. He also left a note for Dean, under his pillow, explaining about the concept of the tulpa. On Monday he went into the coach’s office as directed. Mr. Meyer immediately expressed consternation at Sam’s bruises and split lip. “Did your father do that, Sam?” he demanded.

“My brother,” Sam lied. “We got into it on Saturday night.” 

The teacher didn’t believe him, Sam could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t make any accusations. “Your father told me you snuck out of the house to come to the game.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That wasn’t a great idea, Sam. You have no idea what’s out there, what kind of predators are waiting for kids like you. I get that you were upset by your father’s decision, but it’s not a great idea for a young kid like you to be out on the streets by yourself, okay? It’s not… it’s not safe.” 

Sam wanted to laugh. He knew exactly what was out there on the streets. “No, sir.”

“Do you feel safe at home, Sam?” 

“Sir?” 

“Your brother looked…”

“He got beat up at school for going after another guy’s girl.” Why was he lying? Wouldn’t it be for the best if he got sent away? He didn’t want to get separated from Dean, didn’t want to lose him, but it sure sounded like Dean wouldn’t mind. “He’s fine, sir.” 

“You’re moving a little stiffly. I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me see your back, Sam.” 

“No, sir.” 

He sighed. “Well, I can’t force you. But I hope you realize that if you feel unsafe or need to talk about anything I’m here for you. I spoke to your father today and he told me to tell you that you’re still on the team but you’re on very thin ice, whatever that means. All right, get to class, kiddo.” He passed him a hall pass. 

At practice no one asked him about what had happened on Saturday. He had a good practice, though, so that was okay. His father came to practice toward the end and followed him home – didn’t speak to him, didn’t walk beside him, just followed him. Made sure he was actually going straight home and observing his “punishment,” he supposed. 

At least at school he got food. At home, in the confines of his room, he got none. He did however get a chance to think, and what he got a chance to think about was the bridge case. He found a note from Dean stuffed into a schoolbook. “Vengeful spirit, according to Dad,” the note insisted. “He’s never heard of a tulpa.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. There were all kinds of things John Winchester hadn’t heard of. “So, whose bones are you going to salt and burn then?” he challenged. “Still think it’s a thoughtform.” Who, though, had created it? Most kinds of tulpa, from the way Jim had made it sound, just sprung from general belief. This seemed more targeted. It had specific types of victims in mind, and that really seemed to say “created” rather than “sprang forth” to Sam. If it was created to serve a specific purpose as he thought, the answer had to be in the victims themselves. 

What did they have in common? Most of them went to the same church – but not all of them. In terms of gender they were exactly half female and half male – or, to think about it another way, they were all young heterosexual couples. They were all young heterosexual couples that had been caught in the middle of sex. The police reports all stated that they had been in the middle of the sex act, or at least a sex act, when the assault took place. Not just sex, Sam noticed with a shudder, but Car Sex. “Gross,” he whispered, going over his notes again. Lots of couples went up to that spot to spend time together, at least according to his school buddies. Only these select few had been attacked. Had they been the only ones actually engaging in sex? He decided that maybe that was the best lead, because otherwise there was nothing that made any of these couples any different from any of the other young people in the area. He tapped his pencil against his notebook furiously – with his left hand, of course, since his right hand was still too blistered to really use well. 

He knew that the whole “rule of silence” was supposed to be a punishment to him, but in reality it seemed to be his father and brother who were having trouble with it. They escorted him to the bathroom on a schedule, they timed his shower lest he get more time out of his room than allowed, they marched him to school and home from practice and they kept opening their mouths like they wanted to say something. Sam, by contrast, had nothing that he wanted to say and could receive no comfort from his companions so he was perfectly content for the current state of affairs to continue. He did, however, pay the school maintenance man five bucks for a claw-foot hammer and hide it in his backpack. 

Dad wracked his brains and the local library for a possible source for a haunting. Of course he came up empty, and he was frustrated even further by the fact that his youngest son’s name came up on every single book he looked at. Sam had only Dean’s word to go on of course, passed on through notes left under his pillow. There were worse ways to communicate, and the thought of his father turning red in the face at the sight of his carefully written signature on the sign-out card in the back of the book would probably keep him very warm for several nights to come. Dean also warned him that he had a date coming up with Vanessa Miller, to take place at a time and place of her choosing. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know where this was going to go. 

On Wednesday, he went out to the church with Samantha. Their job was to deep clean the different church offices. Sam had never seen such a large religious facility before and he said as much to his boss, who chuckled. “Our fisherman casts a pretty wide net,” she told him. “We’re proud to be part of his catch.” That sounded kind of cult-like to Sam but he hadn’t been raised around religion. It didn’t seem to be hurting anyone and certainly seemed to make Samantha happy, so he nodded and smiled and got to scrubbing. They started out in the choir offices. Then they moved on to the youth ministry, and then to the accounting office, and finally to the pastor’s office. “Hey Samantha,” Sam called, momentarily distracted by the cleric’s extensive library. “Has your pastor been to Tibet?”

“Um, not Tibet but I think he did some missionary work with exiled Tibetans in India, why?” 

Sam looked at the books. “Just wondering.” 

Dean and Vanessa’s date was finally established for Saturday night. Sam slipped a note to Dean warning him about the tulpa and what he thought its intentions were. The response he got back was, “All I’m hearing from you is ‘car sex,’ Sammy.” He decided he might as well not bother. Instead, he formed a plan. 

He could do this one of two ways. He could escape, steal a car and go rescue Dean himself… or he could involve his father. Involving his father would almost certainly involve a beating, and might well involve plan A complicated by a more personalized escape possibly including handcuffs and/or rope. Either of these things might take more time than Dean (and Vanessa, whoever she might be) had. On the other hand, he had no idea what would actually kill a tulpa. He waited until Dean had been gone with his date for long enough. Then he left his room and entered the common room. His father looked up with an evil glare. “You don’t appear to be on fire,” he growled. “Get back in your room before I throw you in there.”

“Dean is in danger,” he explained quickly. “I’m pretty sure that the thing killing people over by the bridge is killing fornicators, and if that’s not where Vanessa was taking him tonight I’ll eat your shoe.” He might eat his father’s shoe anyway. He was hungry enough. 

“Do you even know who the vengeful spirit is?”

“I don’t think it’s a vengeful spirit at all, I think it’s a variant on a thoughtform called a tulpa but it doesn’t matter which one it is,” he added when he saw his father’s features grow sour again. “We both know what he’s going to be doing over there and if we don’t save him it will be just you and me. Neither one of us wants that.”

John opened his mouth, then he closed it again. “You’ve got a really funny way of phrasing things, boy.” He stood up. “Get your shoes on.” 

Sam had never been allowed to sit in the front seat of the Impala, not once. Now for the first time he looked out of the windshield without a barrier. “So you think it’s a thoughtform,” his father said finally as they pulled out onto the road. “Care to share why?” 

He shrugged. “I must have seen it in a book at Pastor Jim’s. I was trying to think of why a vengeful spirit would be choosing these people in this place and I couldn’t think of anything, I was really kind of frustrated when I went to sleep and I remembered it in a dream.” 

His father shook his head. “You’re a deep son of a – well, you’re deep.” 

“I confirmed that I’d seen it there by calling Pastor Jim,” he added. “I’m not making it up.” 

“Okay.”

“Because it sounds made up.”

“I believe you, Sam. I don’t necessarily believe that’s what’s causing this but I believe it’s a possibility and I believe that you came across it somewhere. Dean mentioned something the other day, about it maybe being a possibility. Said something about seeing it at Pastor Jim’s, so I called him.”

“It turns out that the pastor of a local mega-church has been to India. He did missionary work with Tibetan exiles. He might have found out how to do it there,” Sam added. It was kind of galling to hear his own ideas parroted back at him with Dean’s name attached but really, it had been his own idea to do it that way. Who else could he possibly blame? 

“Why do you even know that?”

“I told you I was going to that church to do some cleaning work.” He paused. “It’s possible that he legitimately just went there to do charitable work with displaced people, of course.” 

John snorted. “Keep telling yourself that, Sammy. It’s cute.”

They pulled the Impala into the bushes a little way past the make-out spot. It was easy to see that Vanessa’s 1991 Corolla was already there. “Why are the windows steamed up, Dad?” Sam whispered, adjusting his grip on the shotgun.

“Never you mind, boy.” His father’s face was scarlet. “That’s private, between your brother and Vanessa Miller.”

“Is it about car sex?” 

“Yes.” 

“Gross.”

“You asked, Sam. Focus. This is about Dean’s life.” 

They hunkered down in the bushes to wait. Sam watched as the car began to rock, very gently, from side to side. “What are they doing now, Dad?”

“Never you mind, son.” 

“Gross!”

It was John who saw the eyes first - beady and red and on the other side of the car. Sam saw them briefly and then something solid hit the Corolla. The car stopped rocking for a moment, then it started again. This time it moved a little faster. Sam gripped his gun and prepared to move forward, but his father put a hand on his shoulder. “We still don’t know what we’re dealing with, son, and we don’t have a clear shot. Wait a moment.” 

There was another thud as something hit the car again, like two solid, meaty fists. This time Sam saw two dents appear on the trunk as a figure took shape. Seven feet tall if it was an inch, a leather hat pulled low over its face concealed all of its features except for two glowing eyes. A long, billowing trenchcoat encompassed its body. One gloved hand held a sickle. The other held a punching dagger. A small, feminine hand wiped away at the fog on the rear window. It was followed by a not-so-small feminine scream. The rear doors opened and both Dean and a girl got out, both stark naked. The girl was screaming and running toward the road. Dean had pistols in each hand and was firing them point blank at the attacker, emotionless and strong.

“Go help the girl,” John barked. 

Sam sprang into action, running after Vanessa. The teen was running up the embankment toward the bridge and really, it was the smartest move. If anyone was going to come to her rescue they’d come this way and most people would notice a naked girl trying to flag them down. Unfortunately the bridge was already occupied, a fact Sam hadn’t picked up on before he caught up to his brother’s current companion. He brought himself up short just in front of her when she stopped. “Hello, young man,” the stranger greeted, ignoring the hyperventilating Vanessa behind him. “That’s an awfully large gun for such a small boy, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes,” Sam admitted. He kept himself between Vanessa and the new arrival – although maybe he wasn’t so new. His collar identified him as a man of the cloth. His gray hair put him at about middle aged and his eyes put him at an eleven out of ten on the evil villain scale. “What’s going on here?”

“My problem isn’t with you, young man. A boy such as you is surely innocent of such crimes as have been perpetrated here by so many, even here tonight.” He didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Down on the ground Dad fired his own shotgun into the tulpa. Consecrated rounds had no effect. It grabbed Dean’s left arm and twisted, a sickening crack filling the air. “Both of these sinners must be punished in accordance with the law.”

“Whatever happened to letting he who is without sin cast the first stone?” Sam hurled. Vanessa grabbed his shoulder like it was somehow going to be more useful in keeping the crazy preacher man at bay. 

“There is too much sin to let the sinners police themselves. We need to set an example for them. We need to save people with fear. I’m sure that you can understand that if you think about it, right? If they’re afraid to commit the sin they’ll avoid the sin, and so choose virtue.”

“I don’t think that a virtue chosen out of fear is really virtuous. Then again, what do I know, I’m ten. Call off your tulpa, man.”

“You recognized it, then?” Scary Preacher Man’s eyebrows had minds of their own, like permanently affixed caterpillars. Now they rose almost to his hairline. “Impressive. If you recognize a tulpa then you know that the only thing that can control a tulpa is willpower. The caster’s willpower and I can assure you young man, I have more willpower than anyone.” 

Sam glanced behind him. There was a chalk symbol drawn on the ground. “Pride is a sin.” He broke free of Vanessa and ran over to the symbol. One foot was all it took to break one of the lines.

Down near the creek, the tulpa had been slicing into dean’s arms. As soon as the line was broken it stopped. It dropped Sam’s brother to the ground and strode up to the bridge. John checked on Dean briefly, made sure he was still alive and followed. “What have you done, you idiot?” the preacher demanded. His voice was harsh but his face went pale and sweat immediately started to pour down is face. “Do you really think I needed a picture in chalk to control it? I told you – it is my willpower that controls the tulpa and my will has never been broken.”

John gave a snort. “Clearly you’ve never gone head to head with Sam.”

The monster strode – lurched, really – up to the quartet. Vanessa, who was still hiding behind Sam, tried to make herself as small as she could and began to cry. The ten-year-old could kind of understand the sentiment. This thing was huge, and it was terrifying, and it was hugely well armed and it was staring down at him. “What are you waiting for?” Preacher Man asked. “Kill him!” 

“You’re free,” Sam told it in a quiet voice. “Do what you will.” 

For a moment the boy felt like he was pushing up against a boulder, a rock eight times his size and weight. Then he settled himself in and gave a mental shove – with his legs and not with his back – and he felt it give. The tulpa turned to face the staggering preacher. “No,” the older man gasped. “You can’t do this. You can-“ He was cut off in a violent spray of blood. 

John turned to Sam and the gibbering Vanessa. “Get her home,” he directed. “Make sure she knows what to say. She was on a date with your brother, the killers struck, Dean drove them off. Your brother needs the hospital.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam replied. “Come on, Vanessa.” He grabbed the girl’s hand and led her back to her own car. “Get dressed,” he directed, chucking his brother’s clothes out of the car. The girl got dressed. Before she could get into the car, though, she knelt down beside the creek and vomited noisily. Sam held her hair and patted her back until she had emptied her stomach as much as she could, and then he held her while she cried for a while. Eventually she was willing to be led to her car. He didn’t blame her for being so shaken up. He’d grown up around all this, after all. She’d grown up surrounded by normal and everyday apple-pie things. Her first encounter with the supernatural had left her naked and covered in blood. “Here,” he said. “Give me the keys.”

She looked at him. “You’re like, what, eight?” 

“Ten,” he retorted. “And I should even be able to see over your dashboard, all right? There’s no way you can drive.” She had to acknowledge the truth of this. She handed over the keys and directed Sam toward her house.

He drove in silence, with the windows down. When he pulled into her driveway she gave him a single chaste kiss on the lips. “Thank you, Sam,” she told him. “You saved my life. Your brother’s, too.” And she disappeared into the house.

He walked back to the apartment alone.


	7. Epilogue

Dean’s arm was badly broken in three places, and the cuts the tulpa had left him with were deep and required lots of stitches. He’d be in a cast for some time. That was okay. While his chances with Vanessa Miller were pretty well shot – she’d always associate him with the worst night of her life – she was pretty vocal about how he’d run off the Bardstown Bridge Killers, who had then had a fatal falling-out on the bridge. Anyone who might have been jealous that it was Vanessa that he’d been with that night was more than mollified by the prospect of being with the Big Bloody Hero who had the stitches and the cast to prove it. 

If, in the privacy of his own apartment, he complained about the itchiness of the cast or the pain of the stitches no one outside the family needed to know. Likewise, if his grades made a sudden improvement when he had to “dictate” homework to his little brother because of an inability to write with his off hand, well, that was something no one talked about either. After all, it wasn’t like they were sticking around once the stitches were out. 

The teen wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from his date. He knew he was taking a risk in letting Vanessa take him to the haunted make-out spot, but he’d gone in loaded for spirits. Sammy had told him it wasn’t a spirit but Dad had told him that it was. Of course, Sammy had been right and Dad had not. The knowledge shook Dean for a while. Of course it was possible for anyone to be wrong sometimes – it was something the guy had never seen before, after all. (So how was it possible for Sammy to have figured it out?) Either way, he’d been shocked to notice his father and brother together when they came to rescue him. And after he’d gotten back from having his arm set and answering police questions (and Sam got back from walking back from Vanessa’s house) Sam had been returned to his previous privileges, those of speaking and eating, without having apologized for his insubordination.

Dean was actually kind of jealous. If he’d even thought about pushing back half as hard against John as Sam had he wouldn’t even be able to walk, much less go save everyone from a tulpa. Maybe he was a little frustrated by Sam’s lack of interest in taking advantage of the détente. Maybe he was just happy to have something resembling peace restored. Soon enough the family would move on to another town, though, and he would be unable to milk his injuries for what they were worth. He resolved to consider the family issues solved for now and enjoy the feminine attention while it lasted. 

John found himself feeling conflicted. Sam’s insubordination had filled him with fury. He’d earned a beating just for even trying to get out of shooting practice. For crying out loud, there were demons after the boy. Not just demons, there were hunters after him too. He had to be able to defend himself from both sides. Shooting would help him to do that. Soccer wouldn’t. But then he’d kept going, poking holes in John’s argument and even later that day (when the bottle calmed him down) he had to admit that Sam’s points had all been valid. It wasn’t like he’d have had a hard time switching to the afternoon. Sure Dean had work, but like the kid had said, he could have done shooting practice with each of them solo. It would be good to give Dean some one-on-one attention. Maybe it would make Sam pay better attention too. Hell, maybe it would have been good for them to spend some time alone together, much as both of their skins would have crawled at the idea. 

But John had refused to even consider the plans for no reason other than the fact that they were Sam’s plans, which he could admit to himself in the privacy of his bedroom. Sam had resisted so John had to push. It was like something about the boy just circumvented the rational part of his mind. He couldn’t let Sammy think he had the slightest bit of control, and why was that? He’d never needed to be like that with Dean. 

Then there had been the running off. That – he didn’t think he’d overreacted there. Again – the boy had demons after him, and hunters. It wouldn’t have been the first time one or the other had caught up to him either, and for a game. For a damn game. And he’d managed to slip into that crowd of rug rats and score two goals before John and Dean even noticed he was out there! The only thing that had prevented John from wringing his son’s neck had been the presence of witnesses. That was pure spoilage, pure and simple. Dean had spoiled him rotten if he thought he could get away with something like that. He’d been told no. He shouldn’t have even had the balls to ask, but he’d been told no and he needed to accept it. 

But then there had been the bow hunting itself and his little display of will. He’d made Dean deliver the discipline both because he’d obviously coddled the boy – it was good for both of them, that Dean administer the blows – and because if he’d done it he might well have killed him. How was it possible for a ten year old to be so cold, so rational and so spiteful at the same time? He’d taken each of those blows without a single sound and John could see from the welts that Dean had obeyed and not gone lightly on the kid. But nothing had worked. He hadn’t bent and he hadn’t broken. Denying him access to the common family life had seemed more like a reward than a punishment. Indeed, after the encounter with the tulpa John expected Sam to come out and sit with the family again. He didn’t. 

That wasn’t how he’d expected Sam’s first hunt to go either, although maybe he should have. According to Jim a tulpa thus created will always turn on its creator eventually; overpowering the caster’s will just made it happen faster than it otherwise would have. Shots were fired but useless; Sammy had won by out-stubborning the caster.

He wanted to sit down with his boy and talk about it, discuss what had happened and how he’d beaten it and how it felt and exactly how he’d done it in case they encountered one again. He wanted to know how the boy had figured out that it was a thoughtform in the first place when John hadn’t ever even heard of such a thing – or, for that matter, knew to sniff for demons like a damn bloodhound. The boy was weird, but maybe useful. When the time came to actually approach his younger son, though, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He stood outside the bedroom with his hand raised, ready to knock and let it fall limp at his side. “Neither of us wants that,” the boy had said when bringing up the possibility of their being alone together forever. His son hated him. The chances of the kid trusting him enough to answer him honestly were about as good as the chances of Mary coming back from the grave. 

Both incidents made it into John’s journal, although not in full detail. He described Sam’s desire to play soccer instead of bow hunting but didn’t describe his violence against his children or the violence he’d ordered one son to commit against the other. Why would he want to record such a thing for posterity? He knew what he’d done. 

He described the tulpa – both forms of tulpa, just in case they met either kind in the future. But he didn’t describe his own feelings about what had happened with his son, or how Sam had actually gone on his first official hunt. 

For Sam’s part, he tried not to think about his first hunt. He’d seen violence before. He’d been the victim of violence before. He’d managed to intervene before Dean was killed and that was great but Dean had still been hurt so that got to him, it made him itch right under his skin. Both of them kept looking at him too, like they expected him to do something. He found it best to stay in his room as he had before they met the tulpa. It wasn't like they gave him permission to leave it, after all. 

They stayed in Bardstown exactly long enough to get the stitches out. Their father felt the boys had been there too long already – over two months. There was a case up in Wisconsin that looked like it could be interesting, an old lake house that might have a poltergeist. Sam had his suspicions about the move. He’d seen the way that the adults in their lives looked at the bruising on both Sam and Dean. He’d seen the way in particular that Mr. Meyer and Ms. Hill spoke in hushed tones, occasionally bringing the school nurse in. He knew what they suspected and frankly they were right. His dad didn’t see the glances or hear the whispers but Sam himself had brought them up, hadn’t he? 

His suspicions were confirmed when he wasn’t given any notice before they left Bardstown. He was just roused in the middle of the night and stuffed into the back of the Impala. He never had a chance to say goodbye to his friends or his teachers or to Samantha. All of those people would feel let down by his disappearance and he knew it. “Get used to it, Sammy,” his brother directed when he complained. “Those people don’t matter. They’re not your family. We’re the only ones you should be worrying about.”

Funny, Sam thought in a voice that sounded oddly like Az’, those were the people who seemed most likely to worry about him.


End file.
